


Sherlock Sick Fics

by missdeathfrisbee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Kidlock!, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Anxiety, Asthma, Cancer, Diabetes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epilepsy, Fluff, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Molly/Sherlock if you squint, Mono - Freeform, Mostly Gen, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Organ Failure, Panic Attacks, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock-centric, Sick Character, Sickfic, Whump, meningitis, tuberculosis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 13:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdeathfrisbee/pseuds/missdeathfrisbee
Summary: A collection of hurt/comfort fictions, mostly depicting physical illness, written on request. Essentially, I torture Sherlock a lot with a wide variety of medical maladies.If you have a request feel free to comment on my latest chapter and I will add it to the list of updates.Coming Soon: Celiac Disease[Cross-posted on other sites, don't freak out.]





	1. Stomach Flu

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for depictions of vomit.

"You're sick."

A brave approach by Doctor John Watson, very brave indeed. A blunt proposal, a sharp observation made by an obstinate practitioner. He was daring, making a statement- an _accusation_ like that.

And Sherlock despised him for it.

"Am not," the detective countered, angrily brushing a curl away from his face in order to take a look through the microscope properly. He couldn't see through it right, it was out of focus. There must have been something wrong with the lens...

"Yes, you are. I'm a doctor. I can tell you have a _bloody low grade fever._"

"Nope," Sherlock said, popping the 'p'.

"Sherlock!"

"You see, but you do not observe, John. I'm hot because the heating's broken, obviously. And my cheeks are flushed because..."

"Hmm?"

"Because I'm wearing... make up."

"Nice try. And the heating isn't broken, for your information. Oh detective, who can't tell he's burning up."

"I'm not!"

"You're wrong." Sherlock seemed incredibly offended by these two words, and shot John a death glare.

"I'm not even going to reply to that." And he turned back to the microscope, brow furrowed, attempting in vain to identify some pancreatic enzyme active sites.

"Oh, nice. The cold shoulder, I presume?"

His flat mate did not deign to grace him with an answer.

"I'm dealing with a teenager," John sighed, throwing his hands up. "Fine, don't talk to me." Silence. "Oh for - never mind." John dragged both his hands over his face. "Arrogant git," he muttered, walking away.

Sherlock heard John shuffle off, stomp up the stairs, and shut himself in his room. There was a shifting of what could only be cables, and a faint click that the detective labelled as the opening of a laptop. John was now occupied. Good.

The lanky man leant away from the science equipment, letting a breath escape in a huff. Retreating into his mind palace, he analysed his symptoms.

_Fever, an oncoming pain in his lower abdomen, thickening of mucus in his sinuses, a tingling in his chest. And a rather odd churning sensation in his stomach..._ Mind over matter. Sherlock knew it was stupid to think that way, but he was the world's only consulting detective. His brain was superior, and his transport would not win. If he wanted his tea and toast to remain in his stomach, they would.

It was an hour later that Sherlock started to doubt his theory. Abandoning his experiment, he migrated to the sofa, falling onto it without his usual grace and taking a few deep breaths. It's at this moment that John completed his blog post, clicked 'publish' and clambered downstairs. Groaning internally, the detective hauled himself up, using the back cushions to support himself, and smiled as the doctor came in.

"You're not flushed anymore, so maybe you were right," John said upon entering, knowing full well that it was because the detective had actually paled considerably, and had adopted a grayish tinge. There was no way now that Sherlock could deny his lapse in good health.

"Of course I was right," Sherlock forced out, snapping his lips shut immediately in order to ensure that words were the only things he spewed. John raised his eyebrows, wandering into the kitchen to make some tea. While boiling the kettle, he quickly identified the nearest basin, and while the detective was occupied with controlling the nausea, subtly nudged it closer to the couch.

"Here," John said as he placed the tea on the table, intentionally nudging it so it sloshed over the sides. Sherlock greened, and the doctor sighed. "Sherlock."

"I'm fine," the detective countered tersely, sucking in a deep breath. John sat down on the sofa next to him, keeping one eye on the bin and the other on his flatmate, sipping his tea absent-mindedly.

"You going to have some?" He urged, pointing at the tea. Sherlock grimaced, paling even further, if that was possible. But, if he was to keep up appearances...

"Absolutely," he muttered, reaching for the mug. He had barely raised it to his lips when it slid out of his hand and stained the carpet. Shaking, he folded himself over and groaned. "Oh God..."

"Are you sick now?" John queried just before the detective retched, and, rolling his eyes, the doctor held the basin under his chin. Now was not the time for 'I told you so's - those would come later - so instead, the good doctor rubbed circles on his best friend's back while he vomited noisily into the bucket.

When he finished, he was so out of it he almost fell into the basin. "Woah there," John yelped, putting it aside and hauling the detective upright. Sherlock moaned miserably when John laid him back against the cushions, and the soldier felt a pang of sympathy when he winced at the painful clenching of his internal organs. "It's alright Sherlock, I'll get you a glass of water. Oh, and we need to check that fever."

"I'm not sick," Sherlock protested weakly, opening his eyes. "I'm not."

"Sure." John took in his flat mates appearance and shook his head. Sherlock's mouth said he wasn't sick, but the pallor of his face, the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the involuntary shudders that passed through his body said otherwise. Not to mention the now vomit-filled basin John held in his hands. "If you're not sick, then I'm not an adrenaline junkie." He wandered to the kitchen and filled a glass by the tap, placing it more gently on the table before Sherlock in order to avoid another hurling episode. "Open," John ordered as he thrust a thermometer in Sherlock's direction. The detective glared but obeyed, his bowed lips snapping over the mercury and glass.

"You _are_ sick," John clarified, and when Sherlock opened his mouth to argue - "Ah! No. Keep it closed while the thermometer is doing its job." The taller man could've killed John with the look he shot him next. The doctor smirked, pleased that he caught Sherlock out at an opportune moment.

When John took the thermometer back he sucked in a breath. "Thirty-nine point three. That's high."

"Is it?" Sherlock spat back sarcastically, letting his head fall back onto the sofa. John rolled his eyes.

"Well, if it goes over forty I'm taking you to a hospital," John countered, and Sherlock's head snapped up. Big mistake. Another wave of vertigo and nausea hit him and, wimpering pitifully, he let John hold the bucket out for him once more as he hung his head over the rim and coughed up his stomach contents.

"You should be in bed," John suggested but, looking at the lidded eyes and weary expression of the detective, he just pushed him into a lying position and threw the nearest blanket over his skinny form. "Get some sleep," John ordered as he went to wash up the bowl, but Sherlock was already gone.

*

John swore by the afternoon that Baker Street was the new hell.

Around lunch Sherlock's fever had rocketed to forty point two, and despite John's original threats, Sherlock's slurred pleading had stopped him from calling an ambulance. Instead, he had been kneeled down next to the sofa with a bowl of water and a cloth, wiping down the detectives face as he shivered and moaned, caught between sleep and consciousness. John wasn't surprised that Sherlock's body had rebelled so - for one, he barely ate or slept, but he also never got sick. So, when he did, it was bad.

"Shh," John soothed as Sherlock opened his eyes blearily and coughed, groaning as he retched, bringing up nothing but the water he'd drunk. John helped him sit up so he wouldn't choke, and left him that way while he went to empty the basin. When he returned, his flat mate sat shaking, bile staining his shirt and trousers.

"Oh Sherlock," John said, putting the bucket down and using the cloth to wipe his mouth. He hated seeing his best friend this way - he was always so strong and arrogant, so smart and annoying. The sympathy John was experiencing for the detective right now was almost overwhelming.

"Let's get you into the bath. It should help with your fever too," John said, before realising Sherlock was probably unable to stand. "I can't... carry you. Uh... Let me ring someone."

Grabbing his mobile from the armchair, he punched in a number, eyes trained on Sherlock as the dial tones played out. After a few rings, a husky London accent broke through the speaker.

"John mate, what d'ya need?"

"Greg, hi. Is there any chance you could come over?"

"Uh, dunno. I'm sort of working. Why, what's wrong?"

John sighed. "Sherlock's sick. Really sick. His fever's over forty and he won't stop vomiting. I need to clean him up and get his fever down but I can't carry him to the bathroom. I really really could use a hand."

"Jesus. I'm on my way." And with that he disconnected the line.

"Lestrade's coming Sherlock," John said, rubbing his back and holding him upright. "We'll get you cleaned up and try and get your fever broken. It'll all be fine."

Ten minutes later Lestrade could be heard clambering up the stairs, and John tucked some cushions behind the detective so he could get the door. "Bloody hell," the Inspector commented upon seeing Sherlock, and John was almost expecting a snarky remark from his flat mate. Sherlock hadn't even registered Lestrade's arrival. Sighing, John took him under the arms. "Can you get his legs?" He asked, and Greg scooped him up under the knees. "Try not to jostle him about too much," John said as Sherlock moaned, causing both the doctor and the Inspector to grimace. Between them, they carried him to the bathroom.

"How can his skinny arse be so heavy?" Lestrade panted once the detective had been deposited in the bath tub. John was too preoccupied to answer, and after stripping Sherlock down to his pants, turned the shower on and watched as it spurted out in a fountain of cool water. His flat mate cried out when it pelted his back, and John winced, knowing that to Sherlock it probably felt like millions of ice shards penetrating his flesh.

"I'll go get a flannel," John stated, turning to leave. "Keep him upright?"

The DI positioned his hands on Sherlock's chest and back, and a few seconds later the poor man leaned over and vomited into his lap. "It's alright, get it out," Lestrade comforted as Sherlock dry-heaved, and pulling off his jacket, climbed into the tub with him. John returned while the Inspector was attempting to get a response from the detective, and, sighing, handed him the cloth.

"Wipe him down with this," the doctor ordered, clambering in and resuming his post behind his best friend. Greg did as he was told, washing Sherlock's shivering frame and whispering word's of comfort as he did so. A few minutes later, when he was gently cleaning Sherlock's shoulders, the man himself looked up and watched wearily.

"Lestrade?" He slurred, blinking several times, "w-when did you g-get here?"

John chuckled and then sighed. "He's been here for a while Sherlock."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"It's c-cold," he muttered, shuddering. There was another moment of silence, until Sherlock looked around quizzically, eyes more lucid. "Why are we in the bath?"

"Your fever went over forty, we had to get it down," John answered, and Sherlock nodded. He then weakly gestured to the three of them.

"People will talk," he said, looking at Lestrade's sopping wet shirt and the way John's hair was stuck to his forehead. The three started laughing, until Sherlock dissolved into a coughing fit and his friends had to calm him down.

"Alright," Lestrade said once John had switched the shower off, "let's get you dry. I think the fever's down now, right John?"

"We'll check with the thermometer once we're back in the lounge." They both got out of the bath, slipping on the tiles and dripping all over the floor. "You think you can stand?"

Sherlock nodded, taking John's arm and allowing the doctor to pull him up. "Woah," John said when the taller man almost fell against the side of the tub, "easy."

When Sherlock was dry and redressed and they were safely back in the sitting room, John handed Sherlock the thermometer while he went to get changed. "Greg, I may have something that will fit you - come upstairs."

John fitted Lestrade with some tracksuits and one of Sherlock's shirts, before drying off and getting changed himself. "I've never seen him like that," the DI said, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, "at least, not unless he was in withdrawal."

"Neither." John looked tired, and Greg wasn't surprised - he'd been up all day and night caring for his sick best friend. And Sherlock was no ordinary patient.

"I can tell you care about him," Lestrade stated, and he didn't flinch when John flushed furiously, an argument already half way to his lips. The DI shook his head. "That's not what I mean. I care about him, too." He nodded to affirm this. "It just means you've become friends pretty fast. Which is... good. He needed someone to come along and... befriend him."

John smiled then. "He's a right pain though."

Greg laughed. "Don't I know it."

There was a crash from downstairs, followed by a tentative: "John?"

"Duty calls," the doctor sighed, a weary smirk crossing his features. The two stumbled downstairs, coming across a scene that, some how, didn't leave them at all shocked.

Sherlock sat underneath the bookshelf, surrounded by thick and dusty novels. "I wanted the medical journals at the top," he explained, motioning to the chair on it's side. "The chair wasn't stable."

"The chair wasn't stable, or you weren't?" John snickered, walking over and holding out an arm. The detective scowled darkly, taking John's hand and allowing the good doctor to haul him to his feet. "You're not supposed to be up. What was your temperature?"

"Thirty-eight point six." John gave him a look. "I'm _not_ lying."

"I'll take your word for it," John said. "Just this once."

"So you'll never believe me again?"

The soldier chuckled. "I'm flushed because I'm wearing _make-up_?"

Sherlock cast his eyes downward and shrugged moodily. "It's not completely impossible."

John stared at him for a few seconds before both he and Greg erupted into laughter. "That may not be completely impossible," he panted, shaking his head, "but _you_, Sherlock Holmes, _are_."


	2. Panic Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is claustrophobic.
> 
> Warnings for panic/anxiety attacks.

Sherlock had always been seen as infallible. That is, to most.

John knew he had weaknesses - cocaine being one, and, of course, his tendency to fall very ill on rare occasions. The doctor was thankful that these were, as said, rare.

But one thing John had never anticipated was a rather large chink in his flatmates mental armour. Specifically his amygdala.   
He stumbled across it accidentally, when a case landed them in (quite literally) a tight situation.

_SLAM!_

Sherlock, John, Lestrade and Donavan all turned too late to see the bathroom door fall shut, the wood crashing into the frame and causing them all to jump. They had wandered in there to examine some evidence - a victim had been found in a disabled public loo outside ASDA, just over two days ago, and they had intended to reevaluate the scene. Lestrade sighed, walking over. "Nothing to worry about, it's just the wind."

"Well open it then!" Sherlock snapped, thrusting a hand forward. John looked at him in surprise. The detective opened his mouth and shut it again, shrugging moodily. "It-it smells enough as it is."

Lestrade grasped the handle and jiggled it up and down. "Ah, it's stuck." He yanked on it again, moving his head and peering down the side. "Bolts got caught. We can't open it from in here." He threw himself at it. "No, no way. It opens in the other direction."

Sherlock groaned, storming over to kick the opposite wall. It was only a single pace away - the bathroom was quite small. And with all of them crammed in it, it was even smaller.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," John said. rolling his eyes. "We can just call someone."

"No service," Donavan interjected, glaring at her phone. "God. I'm stuck with you guys untll someone realises we're in here."

"No," Sherlock stated simply, weaving through the police force to face the door. "No," he repeated, slamming his fists against the wood. "Is anyone there? I'm stuck in here with a bunch of imbeciles!"

There was a collective sigh. "Sherlock," John said, putting his hand on his arm, "It's six thirty AM. No ones out there yet."

"Someone could be walking by!"

John shrugged, leaning against the wall. "We'll just have to wait it out." He wrinkled his nose. "You're right about the smell though. Is there air freshener or something?"

"You can only spray it in a ventilated area - are you trying to choke us John?" his flatmate growled, marching to the other side of the room again. The doctor raised his eyebrows. Yes, Sherlock could be nasty sometimes, but that was completely unnecessary - it wasn't John's fault they were trapped in here.

Lestrade put the lid down on the loo and sat on it, legs spread. Donavan slid down next to him, against the wall. She held her phone up to the ceiling, looking at the bars tiredly. "We're going to be here a while," Greg said, rubbing his hands together, "we may as well go over the facts, eh?"

John looked at his flatmate, who was pacing along the opposite wall and fiddling with his gloves. "Sherlock?"

"Uh," he said, staring hard at the ground, "we know the victim was killed in here, because the disinfectant was used on both walls, suggesting blood landed on both when she recieved the blow - because of the size of the room. The room is... the room is small - very small - so the blood hit both because it's... small. Really, _really_, small."

Donavan frowned. "What's wrong with him?" she sneered. "We know the rooms small, freak. We're the ones trapped in here."

"Trapped," Sherlock repeated, face seemingly impassive. But then his knees buckled, and he sunk to the floor, one hand thrown out against the wall to steady his landing.

"You alright mate?" John asked, rushing over and placing his hand on his friend's shoulder. Sweat laced his forehead, and he blinked rapidly.

"Fine, fine, it's just-" he gulped, bobbing his knee. "_It's_ _really small._"

John's jaw dropped. "Sherlock, are you _claustrophobic_?"

"No," he snapped, digging his fingernails into his arm. "Of course not."

"Shit," John breathed, ignoring him. "It's fine. Don't worry, we'll be out in a minute." Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes against the advancing walls.

Lestrade stood, rattling the handle. "Is anyone out there? We need to get out - now!"

"Calm," John soothed when the detective started shaking, his teeth gritted. "Some one will come soon." He turned to Greg. "Try opening it from in here again?"

The DI pulled on the door, grunting. "Give me a hand, Sally?" She got up, shooting Sherlock a wary look. "On three," her boss ordered, pushing down on the handle. "One, two- three!" They tugged the door hard, feet sliding on the linoleum. It doesn't move. They stepped away, gasping. "It won't budge. They'll have to break the bolt from the outside."

"How long until someone comes?"

"They open up at seven thirty," Lestrade told John, worried. "That's over an hour away."

Sherlock's breathing quickened, and John swore. "Slow, Sherlock. Keep it slow."

"Have... to get... out," he gasped, holding on to John's arm. The doctor slid down next to him, his body serving as something to lean on.

"I know, I know," John said, squeezing his other hand. "Calm it down. In and out. Do it with me."

The detective sucked in a breath, and on its way out, his lips could be heard shuddering. His knee stopped bobbing and intead went slack, but the shaking intensified. Their simultaneous breathing worked for a few minutes, but then Sherlock lost control again.

Sally winced when the detective began hyperventilating, unable to look away. To her, he'd always been an arrogant bastard. But watching this was just painful.

"Not good, not good mate," John said, squeezing his hand tighter so that his flatmate had something to ground him. "Slow it right down. Now."

And he did, only to be sent into panic again five minutes later. And this is how it went for a long while - John working hard with him to slow his breathing, only for Sherlock to begin gasping again soon after.

It's five to seven when -

"I've just got some service!" Sally exclaimed, ecstatic. John didn't acknowledge her at first - Sherlock's grip had slackened, and his breathing wouldn't slow down. He watched in horror as his eyes rolled back into his head and he body went limp against the wall.

"Sherlock-" He laid him on his back, slapping his cheek. "Come on, wake up." He looked up at Sally. "Good timing. Call a bloody ambulance."

He turned back to his best friend, moving him into the recovery position. "He was breathing too fast, and now he's passed out," John muttered, checking pupil responses. "Wet a paper towel with some water," he ordered, speaking to no one in particular. Lestrade did so, handing it to the doctor.

"Sherlock?" No response. John wiped over his face, hoping the cool water would rouse him. "Come back to me mate."

"Hello? Yes, we need an ambulance outside ASDA, in Soho. We're trapped in the public toilet, the lock jammed. Could you send a team that would be able to get us out?"

John kept a finger on Sherlock's wrist, monitoring his pulse. "Wake up."

"We have a thirty-year-old male in here, unconcious." She looked at the detective on the ground. "I think it was a panic attack. He's claustrophobic."

"Wish I'd known," John hissed under his breath, worry lines appearing round his eyes.

"They'll be here soon," Donavan informed him, blinking at her phone. "Huh. Service is gone again. Must of been a satellite passing overhead or something."

"Thanks Sally," John said, eyes trained on his best friend, ears listening out for sirens.

They came, around ten minutes later. They knocked on the door loudly, so loudly John almost thought it might wake Sherlock. But he didn't move.

"How many of you in there?" A paramedic asked while someone got to work on the lock. There was clicking and scraping against metal, and Greg flinched at the sound.

"Four," he shouted, voice gruff. "Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sargeant Donavan, with Doctor John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."

"Which one of you is unconcious?"

"Sherlock," he shouted back, sighing in relief when he heard the door come loose. It swung open and everyone instinctively leant towards the fresh air. Two paramedics came in with a stretcher and an oxygen mask, and John helped them load him on. Once outside in the sunlight, the detective began blinking, ghostly pale face turning towards his flatmate in confusion.

"It's alright, you just had a bit of a wobble in there," the doctor soothed, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows tiredly. "Okay, it may have been more than a bit of a wobble."

They let John on the ambulance with him, and he slapped Sherlock's hand when the detective tried to cast aside the oxygen mask. "Stop it," he ordered, expression serious. "Just breathe with it. You need it."

"Do not," he countered feebly, but he put it on again nevertheless. They sat in silence for a minute, and then John asked something he'd been meaning to ask for a while.

"Why didn't you tell me you were claustrophobic?"

Sherlock shrugged, averting his eyes. "Never came up," he said, voice alien with the mask on.

"Right," John replied, dropping it. A few heavy seconds passed.

"John," Sherlock voiced, eyebrows knitted together. "They... didn't take any videos or anything did they?"

The doctor smiled, touched by this softer side of the detective - the vulnerable side. He didn't like being seen as weak.

"No," he answered. "They're not that cruel."

"Matter of opinion," Sherlock retorted, referring to Sally Donavan.

Despite her reputation, however, Sally made sure to jam a piece of wood under the door next time a case involved a cramped space.


	3. Mononucleosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally and Phillip spit in Sherlock's drink. Ew. 
> 
> Warning for mild depictions of vomit.

"John?"

The doctor looks up from his blog to see a rather dishevelled Sherlock standing in the doorway. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face as pale as chalk. He sniffs pathetically.

"Jesus. You alright?"

"I have mono."

John stares at him for several seconds, before erupting into a fit of laughter. "Oh Sherlock, wow," he pants, wiping his eyes, "that's a good one."

The detective just blinks at him. He doesn't look amused. 

"What's really wrong with you?" John asks, once he's collected himself. Sherlock rolls his eyes before wincing- not the greatest idea. 

"I just told you. I have mono."

"But Sherlock," John explains, sighing, "mononucleosis is known as the kissing disease."

Sherlock looks up at the ceiling. "And?"

Johns eyes widen, and he almost drops his tea. The china scrapes unceremoniously on the edge of the table as he catches it. "You've _kissed someone_ recently?"

Sherlock smirks, but shakes his head. "I'm slightly offended by your tone of surprise, but no, I haven't." John blushes, thankful Sherlock hadn't noticed how ridiculously jealous his exclamation had sounded. "Anderson has mononucleosis and he kissed Sally. When Sally found out she had it she spat in my coffee. It transfers through saliva."

"Why did you drink the coffee then?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose in disgust. "I only figured it out after I drank it."

John hesitates, picking at a loose thread on his chair. "... Do we need to run tests or...?"

"I'm pretty certain I have it."

"Symptoms?"

"Swollen tonsils, sweats, chills, sore muscles and fatigue." John is surprised his flatmate is being so compliant. He sighs with relief, glad nausea hadn't made its way onto the list. When Sherlock vomits, it is particularly unpleasant. 

"So no vomiting then?"

"Not yet," he replies, collapsing onto the sofa. He pulls out his phone, bored. "Lestrade said he has a case-"

John pulls a face, holding his hands up and shaking his head. "Woah there. If you have mono-"

"I do have mono-"

"Well, yes," John retorts, agitated. "No cases."

It's Sherlock's turn to change expression. It darkens. "John, mononucleosis can last from two weeks to months at a time."

John nods. "Yes?"

The detective's fist clenches, knuckles turning paler than his face. "You can't coop me up in here for a few days, let alone a few months!"

John considers this. "Uh, I beg to differ." He smiles cheekily. "I think I can coop you up in here as long as I want, if you're sick."

Sherlock growls, an inky curl falling over his sweaty forehead. "Absolutely not."

John sighs. "Sherlock, my roommate had mono at university. You're not going to want to go out in a few days." 

Needless to say, John was right. 

*

"This is _miserable_," Sherlock moans as he vomits noisily into the toilet bowl, before lazily reaching for a tissue so he can clear his sinuses _again_. John smiles sadly, holding his hand out for the tissue so he can dispose of it in the bin. The detective shifts over to the bath and leans against it, closing his eyes. "Please don't let it last months."

"We can try our best to make sure it doesn't," John says, flushing the loo, "but I can't promise anything."

"How?" Sherlock replies, falling for John's bait. The doctor grins, sitting beside him.

"Doing whatever I tell you to." His flatmate groans, and it's followed by a chuckle from John. "Come on mate, it's not much. Just resting when I say, taking the medicine, eating what I give you and drinking all the fluids I say you need to drink. That way, we can get rid of it as soon as possible."

"But that's so _tedious_," he whines pitifully, but it seems as if he may be won over. Blinking, he opens his eyes and gives John the most innocent look the doctor has ever seen him give. "But... as soon as I'm better-"

"You get to help out on cases again," John finishes for him, nodding. "Sounds like a reasonable plan to me."

"Yes," Sherlock considers, his thinking face ruined by the pallor of skin and the layer of sweat accumulating on his forehead. "I think you may have come up with a good idea for once."

John does a double take, surprised the detective actually admitted that to him. "Sorry... what?"

"Don't make me say it again."

"Please, do."

Sherlock shoots him a glare. "John."

"Please?"

He sighs irritably. "I said, I think you may have come up with a good idea... for _once_." 

John laughs. "I'm going to edit out the 'for once' bit."

Sherlock can't reply- he's too busy lunging for the toilet once more.

*

By the second week, John is ready to shoot himself. 

It isn't that Sherlock hadn't listened to him- he'd done everything the good doctor said, taking his pills, drinking lots of water and salt replacement solutions and swallowing some toast here and there. He'd even slept willingly, and sometimes without John telling him to. But the work, and the rushing about, and the _complaining_ John had to struggle through each and every day; it left him falling apart at the seams.

"John!" the detective practically wails, flapping his arms pathetically. The man himself looks up tiredly from where he was falling asleep in the arm chair. "_John!_"

"Yes, Sherlock," he says robotically, back clicking as he sits up. "What is it?"

"Everything," he moans, letting his arm fall off the side of the sofa, "_hurts_."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"How?"

"You told me five minutes ago."

"But it might not have hurt anymore."

John frowns. "And?"

"I thought I should let you know."

John stares at him, bewildered. "You... thought you should let me know." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock thinks about it. "... Yes."

There's silence for a while, and then a groan comes from John. "Please please _please, _let this not last a month."

Sherlock frowns, turning onto his side. "_You're_ not sick. Why do you say that?"

"Because!" John exclaims, throwing his hands up, "you're getting on my bloody nerves!"

"If you don't want to look after me then you can just say!" The detective's shout is ruined by a sudden fit of coughing, and Watson steps in to lift him up and tuck some more pillows behind his back. His gaze softens when he see's Sherlock's eyes watering and his chest heaving, and he perches on the edge of the sofa. 

"Any nausea?" Sherlock shakes his head. "Good. Can I quickly check your lymph nodes?" A nod. The doctor reaches forward and places his hands on Sherlock's neck, ignoring the detective's involuntary flinches and winces. "I'm sorry about what I said. You're a pain, but I do want to look after you, because... because I care about you. Because I'm your... best friend. It's what best friends do."

Sherlock is silent for a moment, and then he looks his flatmate straight in the eyes. "What else do best friends do?" 

John clears his throat, still feeling the sides of Sherlock's neck. "Um, well they... they always have each other's backs..."

"And?" Sherlock's gaze never wavers.

"And they... they uh..." John is transfixed by the startling blue of his flatmate's eyes. Which is ok. Because they're an entire colour spectrum, and so it's normal to be taken aback by such a phenomenon. It means nothing. Until suddenly he isn't enraptured by his eyes anymore, but by his lips, those perfect cupid bow lips that John really shouldn't be staring at...

"Do best friends... do... this?" Sherlock mutters, referring to their current situation. John becomes very aware of how close they have become, and of the fact that his hands were no longer on Sherlock's neck for purely medical purposes. He shakes his head.

"No, they don't, they shouldn't-" he's interrupted by a pair of chapped lips on his- the kiss is brief, but it's the best kiss John's ever experienced. It's simple, it's silent- and it's glorious.

When they're finished, both are out of breath for no particular reason. John closes his eyes and leans his head against his flatmates before sitting up and looking around the room. "I'm sorry."

"What for?" 

John sighs. "Taking advantage."

Sherlock laughs, rubbing a hand over his face. "You didn't take advantage, don't be stupid." No response. "Anyway- if anyone should be sorry, it's me."

John turns to him, confused. "What? Why?"

The detective smirks. "Well, it's called the kissing disease for a reason."

Silence. Then-

"Oh, _crap_."


	4. Migraine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is on a case and experiences a migraine. Turns out, they aren't uncommon for him. Lestrade helps him out.
> 
> Warning for mild descriptions of vomit.

Everything starts to blur in front of him, a pool of colour shifting and morphing in the glaring light of the sun. Sherlock squints at the police tape, a dull pain beginning to pound behind his eyes. John isn't with him today- Sarah had threatened to fire him if he didn't return to work in the next twenty-four hours.

"I was reluctant to call you in," Lestrade admits, standing next to him and wringing his hands, a guilty expression plastered onto his face. "It seemed so simple at first, I was sure we could solve it. But the whole team is completely stumped."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, refraining from wincing at the way it aggravates his headache. "Of course you are, I wouldn't expect any more from Scotland Yard."

"Yeah, yeah, alright. Try not to get on Anderson's nerves." The DI points beyond the police tape to an empty but ordinary looking house. Sherlock ducks under the tape, ignoring a small wave of vertigo as he does so.

The body has already been removed from the house, but otherwise the crime scene is untouched. Sniffing the air, Sherlock scans the room, noting the sofa's position and the angle of the coffee table. _Something's amiss..._

"No sign of a struggle," Anderson chimes in from behind him, and Sherlock inwardly flinches at the breach in silence. That, and the fact that Anderson's stupidity is inherently annoying.

"Wrong," Sherlock replies quietly, sliding down onto his knees and inspecting the carpet. He raises his magnifying glass to his eye, only to have it catch the light and explode in a millisecond of pure white; the detective clutches his head, groaning.

"Sherlock?" Anderson questions, slightly unnerved by the sight of the man in front of him. He's obviously in pain, but Anderson's not sure how he's supposed to react to the Freak's whimper of agony. Taking a small step closer, he bites his lip. "Something... wrong?"

The detective looks up suddenly and shoots Anderson a withering look. "Fine. Just pained by the magnitude of your idiocy."

Phillip closes his eyes briefly, trying to contain the sudden onslaught of rage. "If there's something you're not telling us, Freak-"

"Look at the carpet!" Sherlock exclaims, pointing in the general area of the sofa. "You say there's no sign of a struggle, so the killer must have known her. But look!"

Anderson does so, squinting hard at the floor. "What-"

Sherlock huffs, clenching his fists. "The sofa's been moved. It was shifted when she fell against it- after the killer pushed her down."

"If you're making this up-"

"Look at the bloody carpet!" Sherlock yells, before regretting the increase in volume. He swallows against a churning nausea. _Oh. That's new. _

"What about the carpet!" Anderson shouts back, not noticing how pale the detective's become. "Just spit it out already!"

Sherlock points to the window, where a weak sunlight streams in. "The sun hits this carpet every day. Its light causes the carpet to fade in colour-" he gestures to the area in front of them, and then to the sofa. "See here? The carpet next to the sofa is considerably brighter than that of the rest of the room. That's because the sofa usually sits on top of it; but as the victim fell and hit the sofa, it was moved." Anderson can't help but gawp as Sherlock pulls off his gloves with a snap. "The victim didn't know her killer. She was taken by surprise from someone behind her-" Sherlock stands next to the sofa and demonstrates someone pushing him from behind. "She didn't know who it was. But I do."

"Who?"

Sherlock holds up his phone, face expressionless. "Postman. It's been on the news recently- someone has been impersonating a postman, delivering false mail and then breaking into the backs of houses. You just have to track him down and arrest him."

Suddenly, Sherlock stumbles. As if still pretending to be the victim, he falls unceremoniously against the sofa, one hand gripping the fabric while the other reaches up to shield his eyes. Anderson shouts in surprise before waving his hands about in desperation. "Don't touch anything! You're contaminating the crime scene!"

Sherlock starts to shake, falling down onto one knee. The pain is becoming unbearable; he can barely open his eyes, let alone stand up straight. He can hear Anderson screeching in the background, each word a knife twisting in his head- he moans against the side of the sofa, sliding down to the floor.

It's at this point Anderson knows something's wrong. Shifting nervously, he runs outside, searching for Lestrade. He finds the DI going over the details of the case with Sally. "Greg," he says once he slides to a stop in front of him. "It's Sherlock. He doesn't look good."

The Inspector hurries into the room to see a pale Sherlock curled up on the floor, whimpering softly. Sighing, he approaches the detective quietly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Is it a migraine?" he asks, and Sherlock grunts in reply. "You worked yourself too hard again, didn't you? I said not to come out when you have a migraine."

"But... you needed... help," Sherlock forces out through clenched teeth, digging his nails into the floor. "Case."

"Uh, yeah, but I'd rather you didn't collapse on my floor while solving it," Lestrade chuckles, running his fingers through the detective's silky hair. "Want me to call John?"

"Nh," he mumbles, curling in tighter on himself. "Working."

The DI sighs, shaking his head. "Okay. Come on then; I'll drop you home."

It's a bit of struggle, but Lestrade eventually gets Sherlock on his feet, one arm flung over the older man's shoulders as they stumble out into the daylight. Groaning, Sherlock swallows hard, causing the Inspector to frown.

"You gonna be sick?" The detective nods. "Right. Over there, then."

Lestrade just about manages to get them over to a bush before Sherlock doubles over and vomits noisily onto the grass. Wiping his mouth, the younger man straightens out, eyes slits against the sun.

"Better?"

"Mhm," he grunts, leaning against the DI once more. "Tired."

"You can sleep in the cab."

The ride back to Baker Street is relatively quiet, the only sound being Sherlock's short cries every time the cab hits a bump in the road. Lestrade rubs his arm protectively every time the detective's face contorts in pain; he feels incredibly paternal towards the younger man in this moment, as if it is his duty to ensure he gets the best care possible. He closes his eyes against the sudden guilt of calling Sherlock out onto a crime scene. Yet, it couldn't have been his fault- the detective made no sign that he was sick, notoriously stubborn as ever. Except, for some reason, Lestrade feels he should have known anyway.

The cab pulls up outside Sherlock's flat, and the DI shakes the detective awake. "Sorry Sherlock, but we're here. Let's get you inside." The younger man opens his eyes blearily, blue irises clouded. "Need any help?" He shakes his head, raising a sweaty hand to his face. "I'll be here if you need me."

Sherlock clambers out of the car unsteadily, keeping his eyes shielded with one hand as he shuffles towards 221B. Mrs Hudson answers the door and ushers them inside immediately upon seeing Sherlock, tutting about him needing to take better care of himself while watching him with a concerned gaze and soft expression. The stairs are a struggle, but Lestrade only needs to steady him once; upon entering the flat, the detective takes himself to the bedroom, collapsing messily on the bed without bothering to shut the door.

Huffing, the DI follows him in, mechanically closing the blinds, setting the trash can by the bed, and gently laying the sheets over Sherlock's tensed up form. He leaves quickly to fill up a glass with water, which he hands to Sherlock along with a few pills. "Take those. Then you can get some sleep."

Lestrade checks his watch, frowning. "John should be back in a few hours. I'll be out in the living room," he says, standing in the doorframe. "Just shout if you need me."

And with that, the Inspector pulls the door closed, shrouding the detective in blissful darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so rushed.


	5. Diabetes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a hypo. John didn't know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've done a few short-term illnesses, and would like to get into the deeper stuff. As you've probably noticed, none of these stories are connected (or else Sherlock is a very sickly guy) and so I'm going to have a go at some chronic illnesses. Enjoy and please let me know if I ever get anything wrong. Thank you!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Many people have asked this question and CONTINUE to ask this question so before you start fretting - blood glucose is measured differently in the UK than it is in the US. I am British, like Sherlock, so have followed British measurements. Normal blood glucose levels are between 4.0 mmol/L and 8.0 mmol/L in British terms. 1.2 mmol/L is thus a plausible blood sugar level, and I have even witnessed a friend at this level and still (surprisingly) conscious. Thank you for your time.

Sherlock, as most people know, is particularly dismissive of his health. Phrases like "it's just transport," and "there is no time," often pass his articulate lips, much to the frustration of a certain Dr. Watson. However, John would probably be even more concerned if he knew the secret his detective has been keeping from him - as it goes, he remains oblivious.

Of course, we can't have that, can we? It's only right for Sherlock to reveal his ailment, publicly, in a very dramatic way. That's Sherlock's style, is it not?

"John, do hurry up. A man has just been murdered and you're dawdling," the deceptive quips, wrinkling his nose and sanding his hands together. "It's quite irritating."

John scoffs and tries not to jump the man - he's been marching after him for around nine hours with little sleep or food. He doesn't know how Sherlock survives on so little sustenance; John can feel the energy seeping from his pores by the second.

"If you would allow me some time to feed myself-"

"No time, John," Sherlock interrupts, shooting his doctor a withering look. "Did you not hear me? A man's been murdered." The detective quickens his pace, almost in spite of his friend. "Why do you only ever think of food?"

"Because we need it to survive," John mutters under his breath, ever the physician. But he trots after Sherlock anyway, ignoring the uncomfortable grumbles his stomach emits.

It isn't long before they've reached the alleyway they're looking for - it's hard to miss the streams of yellow tape and the glare of whining police sirens - and they're greeted by a sober and weary Lestrade. The DI nods to both doctor and detective before leading them into the gloom, where a body lies motionless and pale on the pavement.

John stoops down to assess the corpse, snapping on the plastic gloves shoved his way by the forensic team. Carefully, he probes the victim's head, sucking in a breath of stank air. "Wound to the back of the head, likely afflicted by a blunt object. Fractured skull, bruising..." John turns to Sherlock, watching him circle the body like a vulture. He has yet to say anything.

"No wallet or identity found on the body," Lestrade ventures, also watching the taller man. "Looks a bit like-"

"A mugging gone wrong," John finishes for him, frowning. "You don't normally call him out for this kind of stuff."

The DI nods, but there's something he isn't saying. He seems to be staring fixedly at the wall on his left, and John follows his gaze, to find that Sherlock is already one step ahead.

Amongst the graffiti, there's a message. It's not necessarily noticeable, but it's fresh - you can still smell the stink from the paint. Sherlock rubs a finger against one of the red, scruffy letters while John reads.

_"Everything is not as it seems."_

"The paints from today," someone says behind the police tape, and John turns to see Anderson. "I already took a sample back. And the body-"

"Last night," John supplies, looking over the body once again. Several seconds pass, and John wonders at the silence. Anderson's turned up, and no one has said anything. No - Anderson's turned up, and _Sherlock_ hasn't said anything.

The doctor raises his head to say something, but stops short when he sees Sherlock leaning gently on the wall. It's almost not noticeable, the slight shake of his frame, but John sees it, his medical eye catching it within milliseconds. It's not long before he's on his feet, but he keeps his distance, aware of how the detective feels about physical touch.

"Sherlock?" There isn't a response, only a slight shudder, but before he can say anything else, Lestrade is next to him. The DI remains calm, one hand frozen in his pocket - his concern only flickers slightly in his gaze.

"Sherlock, mate," the older man says smoothly, taking a step closer to the other's man's hunched swaying figure. "When did you last eat something?"

The detective's only response is to allow his knees to give way - Lestrade lurches forward and catches him before his head can slam into the floor, before slowly lowering him down and moving him into the recovery position. John, bewildered, can barely move - he just stands there, staring, feet glued to the concrete. Sherlock's eyes flutter wearily, skin pale and sweaty. The DI finally pulls out what he was storing in his pocket, and John just frowns at the high sugar juice carton.

"John, a little hand please," Lestrade asks, his eyes never leaving the half-conscious man next to him. The doctor jumps into action, hurrying over and falling to his knees next to the DI. "Can you check inside his pockets for his blood glucose level testing kit?"

John pales, unable to conceal his shock. _Blood glucose level testing kit? _But Sherlock isn't diabetic. Is he?

"Now, John," the older man demands, and then the soldier is frantically turning coat pockets inside out in the quest for a kit John had no idea his flatmate needed. Finally getting lucky he pulls it out and offers it to Lestrade, who nimbly draws out a needle and pricks Sherlock's thumb.

It's agonisingly long before the results show up, even though everyone present knows barely a minute can have passed. When they do show, both doctor and detective inspector wince. "One point two," Lestrade hisses, and John feels sick. "Lift his head, I'll see if I can wake him up. I need to get this down him." He holds up the juice carton, grimacing. "It may be warm, but it will have to do."

"And I'm guessing we call an ambulance if he doesn't wake up," John says anxiously, moving behind Sherlock to lift up his head. "Why do you never look after yourself, Sherlock?"

Lestrade slaps Sherlock's cheek gently, trying to rouse him. "Come on mate, you've had worse. We only need you awake for a minute," he bargains, sliding a straw in the carton. Sherlock's eyes seem to blink, before opening half way. He lets out a sort of frustrated moan, as if upset to be found on the floor, and John would have laughed had the situation not been so serious. "That's it. Can you suck on this?" He places the straw in Sherlock's mouth and the detective begins pulling on the liquid automatically. "Good, good. You're almost there."

After a painstaking five minutes, Sherlock's finished the carton, and he seems a little more lucid. Blinking, he looks around him, eyes finally clashing with John's. The doctor's gaze is a cross between worry and anger, and Sherlock isn't looking forward to the conversation that's going to precede this untimely event.

"Do you remember the last time you ate?" Lestrade asks, and the detective faces him again. There is Gary, to his rescue again, catching him as he collapses like some woozy maiden. He's angry at himself for letting this happen, especially in front of a handful of the police force. Not that it would be the first time. "It's none of your business," he snaps, but his voice is weak and has less bite behind it than he would've liked. Lestrade rolls his eyes, and John clenches his teeth, irritated.

"The last time I saw him eat was yesterday breakfast," the doctor supplies, hands pressed into fists. The DI closes his eyes, forlorn. "Your glucose level is 1.2, Sherlock. Are you actually insane?"

"Might not be anymore," Sherlock counters feebly, wrist gesturing weakly to the tester kit. Lestrade picks it up, studying it.

"We'll test it again in another few minutes," he says, digging in his pockets once more. "A juice carton won't be enough though." He directs his next question to the small gathering of officers behind the yellow tape. "Has anyone got anything sugary on them?"

Ironically, it's Donavan herself that offers up a chocolate bar, and for once, her eyes don't possess any spite. Using his teeth to unwrap it, the DI hands it to Sherlock, who begins to chew it with a morose expression.

"You're very lucky, Sherlock," Lestrade says, helping him sit up and lean against the wall. "It could've been much worse."

"He's right," John agrees, but his voice holds more anger. Massaging his shoulder out of habit, he stares at Sherlock head on. "You could've been in some real danger there Sherlock. If you know you are diabetic, why would you risk skipping a meal that could stop something like this happening?" In reality, John knew why. Sherlock was an idiot who couldn't care less about his health - that would never change. But what John was really angry about, was that Sherlock had never told him. Him, John Watson, a doctor, living under the same roof, and he had been completely unaware about the whole thing.

Sherlock's movements are much less lethargic as he shift his position against the wall. "I know John, but the work-"

"To hell with the work!" John shouts, slamming his fist down on the concrete. "Why did you never tell me Sherlock? Why?"

The detective looks almost apologetic as he meets John's gaze. "You never asked," he provides, before placing the last piece of chocolate in his mouth and crushing the purple wrapper in his fist. 


	6. Double Kidney Failure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's drug use catches up to him in a very serious way. 
> 
> Spoilers for Season 4. Warning for minor depiction of vomit.

It had been eighteen months since Sherlock was unreasonably nonchalant about the state of his health following the, quite plainly, horrific hospital stay - "malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly, I've been off my tits for weeks!" - and currently, John was living with Sherlock, Rosie almost constantly balanced on one knee and a notepad and pen balanced on the other. The doctor recalled distinctly how Culverton brought his friend almost as close to death as he'd been in previous fiascos - with a little help from the drugs of course - but now there lapsed a feeling of peace over Baker Street, one not quite perfect but, preferable. Things weren't necessarily always good; in fact often, they were quite bad, but John's new motto went something like, "It is what it is." And that was, sometimes, shit. Except, he didn't quite anticipate how shit it could really get, until he woke up to a crash one morning in their flat.

If John really concentrated, he knew it started a month or so previously. Over his newspaper one evening, he had observed that Sherlock looked pale and drawn, his eyes slightly glassy and fatigued. Now, they had just finished a physically demanding case, and so at first John put it down to exhaustion - but when Sherlock took wearily to his feet, informing John that he in fact did not feel well and was going to lie down, the good doctor knew there was something quite wrong. Sherlock _never_ admitted to feeling under the weather. However, when John saw Sherlock looked somewhat chipper the next day, he dismissed his suspicions and proceeded to feed Rosie some form of puréed banana and pear, a concoction Sherlock had premeditated would end up mostly down his shirt.

"Anyone could have seen that one, mate," John had replied, rubbing distractedly at his tie with a muslin cloth. "There's no way I'd put this stuff in my mouth either."

The second time something was amiss was when they were climbing the stairs to the flat, chips cradled in their hands. Suddenly, in the middle of the hallway, Sherlock stopped, and John had to consciously make an effort not to knock him over. The detective's form was hunched, a shaking hand still holding the chips and another pressed lightly to his chest. John watched as the colour drained once more from his face, washed-out eyes flickering left and right.

"Sherlock?" he questioned nervously, taking his friend's chips from him as the shaking increased. "Sherlock, what -"

"I'm just -" the brunette hissed through his teeth, sucking in air as if it were sparse. "Catching, my breath -"

John laughed, an anxious reflex. "We only walked up one flight of stairs -"

Sherlock panted, swaying slightly. John almost dropped the chips as he moved to steady him. "I'm fine, John -" another harsh breath, "- just, fine." The detective straightened, heaving in a deeper volume of air before setting his jaw. John stared, bewildered, unsure how to respond. Luckily, Sherlock filled the silence with something like, "must've forgotten to breathe, or, something," and John wanted to point out how ridiculous that was, but Sherlock had already disappeared into the kitchen and scraped two plates together in a rather whimsical fashion.

Over the coming weeks, John would notice that Sherlock could become lost on a case, weakly grasping onto a runaway train of thought one too many times and blinking in frustration in the moments in between. He _slept_ most nights, sometimes longer than John, and the doctor couldn't tell if it was stress or something worse. His only consolation was that the symptoms didn't match up to a relapse - in fact, Sherlock seemed to be the opposite of high; in his worst moments adopting the character of someone old, and perhaps even _boring_.

And if John hadn't been so distracted with Rosie at the time, he probably would have noticed the limp, one caused by heavily swollen ankles shoved into smaller socks - a symptom that would have had the doctor calling for a cab to Bart's.

The evening before the fateful crash, Sherlock had his hands pressed into his eyes sockets, his lips adopting a greyish hue and his forehead beaded with sweat. John had Rosie curled on one shoulder, and rocked her back and forth as he watched his best friend clearly struggle with some kind of physical ailment. Eventually, the detective looked up, eyes creased with pain and hands trembling minutely.

"I feel sick."

It was a simple statement, but it snapped John out of his trance. He cleared his throat, nodding. "How so?"

"I -" Sherlock swallowed thickly, glancing off to the right. "It's nausea. It hangs there like a..." Sherlock faced John again, tongue slack. "I'm so tired."

"Are you in pain?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"My chest, and back..." John frowned, surprised by Sherlock's leniency. "I think I should see someone."

"I can take a look ov -"

"Tomorrow." The word was final. "I need... bed." He stood up slowly, his chair left leaning against the table haphazardly as he wandered drearily off to his bedroom down the hall. John watched him go, taking note of the time - eight twenty-one - and vowed to take him to the hospital in the morning for a check up. After all, it could wait just a bit longer.

John slept sporadically that night, Rosie cradled up against his side and breathing softly, shifting every now and then and nudging John awake with small fists and feet. John almost completely forgot about Sherlock in his dreamy haze, cocooned in the drowsy warmth of both his bed and his daughter. At around six thirty, when his eyes were sliding lazily beneath his lids, he was dragged entirely into consciousness by the loud smashing of glass, a stumble, and loud, eerie, thump.

Many noises often emitted from the boys' flat - in fact, crashes, bangs, and thumps were common occurrences - but Sherlock had not been himself lately, and _this _particularly noise sounded oddly like a body slamming into the floor. It took John precisely forty-six seconds to make it down the stairs. It took him another three to locate Sherlock, who quite frankly, was hard to miss.

Mostly because he was seizing.

The doctor fell briefly into a nightmarish gauze of confusion, only vaguely registering his best friend's head slamming repeatedly onto the floorboards, before throwing himself violently into action. In no time at all he had Sherlock turned on his side, head cushioned on his lap, trying his best to stop his writhing limbs from getting more tangled up in the glass and debris surrounding the table. A strange whimper exploded from the detective, followed by a small pool of vomit, and John swore in a whole spectrum of colour under his breath as he waited for the seizure to pass. It did, eventually, around twenty-six seconds later, and as soon as Sherlock's body lay still John swung his phone out from his dressing-gown pocket and dialled an ambulance, eyes never leaving Sherlock's as they rolled sluggishly in his head.

Eight minutes, John recalled. He didn't know how to factor in traffic and... shock.

The doctor gripped Sherlock's hand as he came to several minutes later, eyes more grey than blue and staring somewhere past John's knee. The smaller man rubbed his shoulder soothingly as he moaned, his fingers sliced with shards of glass from the floor. Feeling helpless, the doctor began picking them out with his bare hands, wincing in the moments Sherlock remained unresponsive to the jagged crystals being pulled from his skin. Sherlock glanced up at him, mouth moving gently and silently, still very much limp on the cold kitchen floor.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I've called an ambulance. They'll find out what's wrong." He clenched his jaw, eyes pricking. "I should've taken you last night -"

A little girl's cry interrupted his monologue, and John gasped, having temporarily forgotten his daughter. "Oh, I -" his hands left Sherlock's, and he found himself clambering down the stairs and knocking frantically at Mrs Hudson's door. Already roused by the commotion, the older lady appeared quickly in a dressing gown, concerned.

"John?"

"Sherlock's not well. I need to go to the hospital with him..." Mrs Hudson drew in a breath, a hand pressed to her lips. Her apartment smelled of a soothing combination of lemon drops and tea. "Could you look after Rosie? I'm sorry it's so early, but -"

"It's not a problem, John," she replied, ushering him back up the stairs. "Let me just get my slippers."

The ambulance arrived two minutes later, earlier than predicted, and took Sherlock away on a stretcher. When asked if he was family, John replied within a heartbeat - yes, he was his fiancé, and he would sit in the ambulance with him, goddammit.

*

The news came in the early afternoon that Sherlock had slipped into a coma. John had stood there, frozen, for far too long - far longer than socially acceptable - and he only just about gathered his wits enough to ask why. The doctor's face had been grave, and John could almost read the answers in the little lines on his face -

Double kidney failure.

"His recovery went smoothly eighteen months ago, but the drugs left somewhat permanent damage. It was only a matter of time before they gave out. I'm sorry, Dr. Watson."

John blinked, mouth dry. If Sherlock had kidney failure, then that meant... well, that meant a lot of things -

"Can I see him?"

The doctor nodded, tucking his clipboard in closer to his chest and taking off down the corridor. John drifted in and out of some kind of alternate reality, in which Mary was still alive and Sherlock hadn't destroyed himself on her orders; a gossamer dream where his life wasn't riddled with psychopaths, silvery revolvers and battered organs...

"He's just in here."

John knew exactly what he was expecting. He was a doctor, after all, and a bloody good one at that - but that didn't make the scene any more pleasant. Sherlock had transformed into an array of tubes and machines, each completing some bodily function that his "transport" could no longer perform. The most obscene of all was probably the thick tube trailing from his mouth, an ugly, tasteless thing that forced his chest up and back down again. John took his position in the chair by the bed, and slid his fingers inside the detective's, not even thinking twice about how perfectly they fit there.

*

Sherlock woke up two days later, disorientated and weak - John had the tube removed from his throat and fed him sips of water as a friend, and always a friend. He left the medicine up to the consulting physician, who told Sherlock he would have to remain on dialysis until further notice - both heard the carefully unspoken: "Probably for a long while - former addicts tend not to be high up on the donor list."

Sherlock smiled gently at his fate, something John found uncanny, and resolved to sleep until the next day. When he awoke, bleary-eyed and quiet, he looked John sadly in the eyes and spoke three words.

"No more fun?"

John shook his head, solemn. "Not as much, no. Less running about. More attention paid to your bodily needs, please. And you'll be seeing this place... a lot more."

He nodded, cheek turned into the pillow. His complexion almost matched the off-white colour, his pale eyes hooded and bruised. "I knew it would come some-day."

John Watson looked out into the London rain, hating the concrete purgatory that swarmed around them like locusts. He wondered if he'd been through the ten plagues yet, or if tomorrow it would rain hellfire and they'd all perish in the flames.


	7. Asthma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a long-term sufferer of asthma. Glimpse into his daily life, and childhood, with the illness.
> 
> In this AU, we're going to forget about the fact that Sherlock was an avid smoker, because that would literally not make any sense.

The first time John experienced one of Sherlock's asthma attacks it was in a predictable situation - during a chase. Both doctor and detective were weaving in and out of the London streets when Sherlock hurled himself against a wall; flattening his back against it and letting his legs slide from beneath him until he was sat, white and panting, on the floor.

"Sherlock?" John yelled in surprise, sprinting over to kneel down next to his newly acquired friend. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock responded with a rather desperate wheeze, pressing one hand to his chest whilst another scrabbled around his coat - John forgot completely about the criminal they were chasing and stared bewildered at the detective. The way his breaths were coming, like the oxygen had turned to tar around them, it almost sounded like...

Sherlock sucked deeply on an inhaler, closing his eyes. "Asthma," he gasped out afterwards, taking another drag. John's eyes widened as his friend took a few moments to regain his composure, leaning his head back against the wall. "Happens, sometimes."

"Sher -" John ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat that had collected on his hairline. "You never said - Are you supposed to be running around like this?"

Sherlock swallowed slowly, standing a little shakily on his knees. "It tends to trigger it, yes, but -"

"_But?_"

Sherlock sighed, straightening, and shot his doctor a smirk. "The thrill of the chase, John."

John scoffed. He'd never met a more ridiculous man in his life.

*

As the months went on John became used to the shortness of breath that would follow a pursuit, though Sherlock seemed to only stop when the need for air became dire - much to John's despair. He even took to carrying around his own inhaler, not quite trusting of Sherlock's self-care skills. He made sure to get all the information he needed from Mycroft, who retold the struggle the detective went through as a child.

"It used to be quite serious," Mycroft said solemnly, leaning back onto his desk. "Often his attacks would land him in hospital - when the inhaler wasn't enough."

John nodded, flicking through the files balanced on his knees. There was a small picture of Sherlock attached by a paperclip to a slip of hospital admin - he was sitting up in bed, grinning stupidly (yes, stupidly) and holding up a play pirate. A cannula thread its way across his face and into his nostrils. Mycroft appeared behind the doctor, looking down at the picture. He smiled. "He was five. He didn't make a fuss, actually managed to win over a few of the nurses with his... charms." His brow crept over his eyes, and he pouted. "He always liked pirates. Could never understand why..."

"What changed?"

"He grew out of it, somewhat. It doesn't ail him so much anymore, but it can become, difficult, around the winter months."

John winced. "Something I should look out for?"

The older Holmes spoke slowly, staring into the distance. "I should think so."

And as the leaves began to decompose that autumn, John kept a watchful eye on his friend. The breathing did appear to get a little worse, but, thankfully, Sherlock combatted it in every way he could. He brought out a new inhaler, one John now noticed he purposefully took every morning - a red one, as well as his usual turquoise, thus a combination of a corticosteroid and an LABA. If he were to leave the flat for a case, he would wind a thick scarf around his neck and lower face, a muffler to humidify the air he breathed. John also watched as he became progressively more germ-aware, washing his hands at every given opportunity and wearing latex gloves around the bodies in the morgue. John picked up on these changes and he, himself, took special measures to avoid catching flu for Sherlock's sake.

Of course, it was only a matter of time.

John woke up to harsh coughing a few weeks before Christmas, and lay in bed, unable to do anything but listen, for far too long. He could hear the way his friend's breath was rattling from all the way upstairs; could hear the repetitive hiss of his inhaler, and the short, quick gasps. Eventually, John made his way downstairs, pausing in Sherlock's doorway.

The detective was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees and his rescue inhaler hovering in front of him. His eyes shone in the faint light from the window, watering, and John approached him slowly, sinking onto the soft mattress beside him. He seemed to be trying to control his urge to cough, inhaling and exhaling slowly and shakily - he was distinctly aware that panicking would only make it worse. And yet, colds always worried him.

"Mycroft told me they were a big trigger." Sherlock shifted slightly to look at him, silent but for a slight wheeze. The doctor could see the pain in his eyes as he weakly rubbed his chest, and before he knew it his hand was on his friends shoulder, rubbing back and forth. "I can sleep in here, if you like, make sure you're okay -"

Sherlock opened his mouth incredulously to protest, but was interrupted by more hacking coughs, not anticipating the way the dusty air would scrape the back of his throat. John gripped onto his arm, fingers massaging a soothing pattern into his skin. The fit can't have lasted more than a minute or so, but it felt like hours, and soon Sherlock was slumped forward and lifting his inhaler with trembling fingers, breathless.

"Your bronchodilator. The red one. Did you take it before bed?"

Sherlock shook his head minutely, eyes closed. The whole bed moved as John stood and searched through Sherlock's drawers, bringing out a red inhaler with the long-acting beta agonist inside. "You should've taken it." The detective shrugged, tired. He only wanted to sleep. John handed him his medicine and he drew it in with one heaving breath without even thinking. "It lasts twelve hours, so you can take one at..." he checked his watch. "Two, tomorrow afternoon." Sherlock gave him a look. "I know it's a little irregular, but you can suck it up."

He strained a smile, not trusting himself to laugh, and lay back on the pillows. John brought another from the living room and stuffed it under his curly head, plumping it up in the process. The detective pulled the covers up to this chin, shivering. He looked rather miserable, if John said so himself, and he found himself caressing the younger man's head as a mother would do a sick child. "You are a little warm."

"I'm fine," Sherlock croaked, and John huffed a laugh. He rushed off to grab his friend a glass of water, placing it carefully on the surface beside him and looking on endearingly as the brunette's eyes drooped. And then, without a single thought about what people might say, he climbed into the space beside him and settled down for a restless night.

*

It felt like dawn would never come. Sherlock spent most the night laid back and wheezing, sitting up when John instructed and drinking water when a glass was brought to his mouth. He remained silent mostly, but every now and then would mention something about how "It isn't usually this bad," or "Go to bed, John," the latter always shot down with a simple glare from the doctor concerned. At one point, John phoned Mycroft, asking if there was anything that would help. "Mummy used to use a humidifier," he said, something different in his tone. "I don't imagine he has one?"

The doctor asked and, at the shake of Sherlock's head, relayed the message. "He used to have a BiPAP for this time of year when he was younger, because the cold caused so many flare ups. I don't exactly recall when he got rid of it..."

"A BiPAP?" He saw Sherlock freeze in the corner of his eye, his chest the only thing heaving. "Do you think that would help?"

"Most definitely," the government official replied with an air of importance. "But the question is whether it's necessary or not. My brother is not stupid - he would have only stopped using it if the doctor's deemed it an inessential... Only using it once every year or so might not be worth the expense."

John hummed, striding out of the room entirely to stand in the kitchen. "Could you bring me a humidifier tomorrow morning? I'm sure you'd get hold of one quicker than I." He looked back at the bedroom door. "I'll see how long this lasts. Then I'll decide if heavy machinery is necessary."

"Very well."

John hung up the phone, taking a few seconds for himself before returning to the room. Sherlock was leant lopsided against the doorframe, inhaler limp in hand. "I don't... need... a BiPAP."

"That'll be for me to decide." He pointed to the bed. "In. Stop being dramatic and lay down."

Sherlock stared at him incredulously before he shuffled over to the bed and lifted his inhaler to his lips. He took a breath. "This is getting old," he observed.

"When was the last time you got sick?"

Sherlock shook his head. "A while back. I was... much younger, early twenties. I've always been careful... after that." John nods, taking a seat. "London is... particularly cold this year. I guess... an average of -2ºC."

"And it's barely even December," John added, scratching briefly at his stubble. "Some people with asthma struggle more with the cold than others."

"Everyone has... different triggers."

"I assume your's don't include pollen - I've spent a spring with you." He grinned, then. "And you like dogs too much for hair to set it off."

"Redbeard..." Sherlock shook his head, eyes distant. "I'm tired."

John reached up to feel his forehead, twisting his mouth to the side. "Your fever isn't so bad," he said, and then placed an ear on Sherlock's back. "But your chest sounds like a burning building."

"Trust me to further incapacitate my lungs," he laughed, and then coughed. John shook his head, pushing him back down onto the pillows. "You should go b-"

"I'm not going back to bed," John snapped, shoving the glass of water into the detective's hands. He sighed. "Try and get some sleep."

Light had begun seeping through the window, an eerie, bluish hue, when Sherlock's breathing finally calmed and they drifted into a much-needed slumber.

*

This had to be his worst one for a long time.

Sherlock could go quite long periods without them, if he took his medications and looked after his lungs and airways, but every once in a while he'd go down with a bout. John was usually there to help him fumble for a rescue remedy, and other than the sickness before Christmas, John had never been truly scared of Sherlock's condition.

Until now.

They'd been on a case, as usual, and Sherlock hadn't even been running - it was early summer and they'd been at the flat looking over files. Sherlock had taken down a few books from the shelf and they'd shot into his hands following a cloud of dust - he'd coughed and waved his arms about, but then he'd rambled on to John about how the murderer had predicted the exact time the ball would ricochet off of the -

And then he'd taken a breath. And then another. And John looked up as he rushed clumsily over to the table and took up his inhaler. He quickly sprayed the corticosteroid into his mouth, pressing his left hand into the wood for support. He wheezed, trying to draw in a breath and then failing, returning to the inhaler once more, gasping, spraying -

He sat down in the chair, eyes wide. He felt as if his chest was collapsing. His throat was numb and he brought a stray hand up to check if it was still connected to his jaw. John met his gaze. He breathed noisily, hunched slightly over his knees.

"The dust?" John supplied unhelpfully, standing to his feet. The hiss of his medicine whistled through the air, but still Sherlock struggled. John kneeled beside him, pushing his shoulders back and straightening his neck. "Don't panic. It'll only make it worse."

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to slap him - how would _he_ feel if he couldn't breathe - but he was interrupted by the pain in his chest. He forced another dose of medicine into his throat, but it was useless - it wouldn't do much if he couldn't inhale it in the first place.

In only a few seconds, his breaths became quick, raspy pants, the air only succeeding in drying out his mouth and the pain intensifying in his torso. John held onto him, worry etched onto his tanned face as Sherlock held the blue inhaler gingerly between two fingers, looking at him with fear.

"Sherlock -" The detective dropped his reliever and it hit the floor with a dull thud. His shoulders began to hunch again, and the doctor was struggling to hold him up. He wanted to tell the detective to_ just breathe_, but even he knew how useless his advice would be. Sherlock was lost in a hurricane of confusion and fear, the air - if he was even getting any - barely making even a sound against his lips.

John scrabbled anxiously for his friend's hands, his own trembling - he lifted one gently, examining his fingers. The nails had begun to take on a tinge of blue, and it looked like his lips were going in the same direction. John swore, letting Sherlock slump where he sat as he darted across the room for his phone. For a frightening few minutes he thought he'd lost it, then there it was, underneath one of the case files, and John misdialed 999 almost twice before he got through.

*

When they arrived in A&E, Sherlock had already been hooked up to oxygen and flung it aside agitatedly twice - the nurses took one look at him, blue lips and all, and rushed him through to a private room. John explained that he had asthma and that his reliever was not working - he brought the blue inhaler out and handed it over to the attending doctor - all the while Sherlock weakly fought off a nurse as she tried to insert a tube into his oxygen mask.

"Sherlock!" John snapped authoritatively, and the detective stilled, looking up at him dazedly. The doctor turned back to the white coat, jaw set. "What do you plan to do?"

"We'll set him up an IV, administer a stronger dose of corticosteroids. At this moment in time I'm a little reluctant to give him an LABA..."

John nodded, crossing his arms in a military-like fashion. "Whatever you have to do."

*

Several hours later, Sherlock was a mess amongst the hospital sheets, dark hair a shock of curls on the pillows and face mostly obscured by an oxygen mask. He was breathing evenly though, thank god, and his oxygen levels had remained stable all the while he slept. John released a shuddering breath of his own, stroking one thumb and forefinger over Sherlock's hand, whilst using the other to caress his forehead.

Mycroft had called, asking after his brother and letting John know he'd threatened the staff - despite John telling him that wouldn't be necessary - and John had told him it was under control and he should be home by tomorrow. Satisfied, the older Holmes had left John to the sentimental soothing.

Lestrade had phoned about the case, but upon hearing of his consulting detective's condition, sent well wishes and joked about Sherlock always somehow landing himself in trouble. John had laughed humourlessly.

The doctor felt his friend shift as he came to, stretching out his legs and sighing, before he opened his eyes sluggishly and looked about the room. A slow arm came up to grope at the foreign object on his face, before realisation dawned and he turned stark blue eyes on the man beside him.

"Yeah," John said, voice breaking. "So, don't ever do that again, yeah?"

Sherlock placed his own hand over John's, and held it there, breathing quietly through the mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm sorry if there are any mistakes, I did some research on medications and all the symptoms etc. but I know it's not quite the same as describing it from first hand experience. Feel free to correct me - I'd actually really appreciate it - and, just one disclaimer, as I've had comments before: THE ENGLISH TEMPERATURE SYSTEM IS DIFFERENT FROM THE AMERICAN ONE. DO NOT PANIC THEY ARE NOT IN AN ICE AGE.


	8. Drugged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extension on the scene from Scandal in Belgravia - so spoilers.
> 
> Warnings for non-consensual drug use and minor depictions of vomit.

When John walked into the bedroom, he didn't know what he expected - perhaps Sherlock rattling off some deductions as Irene bargained for her phone back - but what he did find didn't entirely surprise him. The detective was sprawled out on the floor, trying in vain to lift himself up, whilst The Woman made a beeline for the bathroom.

"Jesus. What are you doing?"

Irene turned back to look at him, somewhat distracted, but not enough to not plaster a smirk onto her face. "He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse." She sits on the windowsill, putting her feet up on the ornate bathtub and grasping a cord hanging from the ceiling. The coat slipped off her shoulder flirtatiously.

John picked up the discarded syringe from beside his friend. "What's this? What have you given him?" He leaned in closer, watching as Sherlock blinked dozily. "Sherlock?"

"He'll be fine." She pointed a toe. "I've used it on loads of my friends."

John knelt beside him, examining his eyes. The detective continued to struggle against the power of the drug. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"You know, I was wrong about him." Irene appeared to be looking at the fallen man endearingly, painted red mouth curling with affection. "He_ did_ know where to look."

John stood up and turned to stare at her, exasperated. "For what? What are you talking about?"

"The key code to my safe."

"What was it?"

She tilted her head, meeting Sherlock's gaze as he twisted, barely conscious. John's patience was thinning. "Shall I tell him?" John looked down at his friend for a moment before turning back to Irene, police sirens whistling somewhere in the distance. Irene smiled at him knowingly. "My measurements."

And with that, The Woman pushed off from the edge of the bath and toppled out of the window.

*

Getting Sherlock into the police car hadn't been so difficult - with Lestrade's help they managed to shove the lanky detective into the back seat with only minimal head bumping - the real problem began soon after they pulled up to the flat. John had just balanced Sherlock on one shoulder - Lestrade taking charge of the other - when his friend groaned miserably, feet dragging and eyes still resolutely shut.

"Sherlock?" John peered over at him, frowning. No, the detective was very much still unconscious. He watched as Sherlock swallowed instinctively, and closed his eyes in defeat. "Over we go," he sighed, Lestrade's only warning as he bent Sherlock forward just in time for him to vomit noisily onto the pavement.

"Oh," the Detective Inspector said, mouth puckered. "I almost feel bad for taking pictures, now."

The detective gasped, hanging limply in their arms. Straightening, the two men manoeuvred him around the mess and up to the front door of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock merely a deadweight in between them.

Once the youngest of the three was positioned properly beneath he duvet, the greying inspector sanded his hands together. "Right. Sherlock's been drugged and I've just had to arrest several Americans. All in a day's work, eh?" John laughed. "I've got to go. You can take things from here?"

John scoffed, tilting his head. "I _am_ a doctor Greg - I should hope so."

He was right, of course. He could handle wiping bile off Sherlock's chin every now and then, checking his pupils for dilation and keep him somewhat hydrated. He had expected all of this. What he hadn't expected were the _dreams_.

The first was seemingly harmless. It must have been about a case, because John heard his friend mutter things like "obvious" and "phone," and then sometimes he would twist and turn like a criminal was getting away. John had smiled at this, wondering if he was in fact dreaming about their first case together, and began picturing himself the chases they had partaken in. However soon the first dream lapsed into the second - and the second was far more concerning.

Sherlock broke out in a cold sweat, and his lips started to chap in fear. He threw one of his hands out and moaned - John caught his fingers between his own, frowning. The detective turned meekly onto his side, curling up just a fraction. "No, please," he slurred, digging his nails into John's palm. "Hurts..."

John reached a hand up and brushed the detective's hair back, uneasy. "Sherlock?" The man in question whined. "Are you in pain?" It was then that his friend retched, shoulders hunching as he dribbled onto the bed. "Oh..." John reached up with a flannel and wiped down his face. Sherlock mumbled incoherently, turning into the cool cloth.

"My arms," he whispered, and then the offending limbs shifted as if holding themselves out for John to inspect. "Itches." John unbuttoned the sleeves and rolled the soft cotton up to reveal his friend's pale forearms. There was no rash, no mosquito bites - simply a map of track marks spattered across the crooks of his elbows, plucked by a young cartographer. The doctor's hands ghosted over the scars, and he could hardly imagine what Sherlock must be dreaming about. "'M trying," he breathed sadly into the pillow, and John's heart clenched.

Despite this, the third dream was the worst of all. John didn't know what it meant, couldn't decipher the words spilling from the detective's lips in this drugged haze, but the context was completely irrelevant. Because no matter what explanation the universe offered to give, the simple fact of the matter was that Sherlock, the stoic, impenetrable detective, was crying. His whole body was wracked as huge, ugly tears streamed onto the sheets, and John could do nothing but watch as Sherlock keened into his own arm, lips shuddering over words of protest and a single, inexplicable name.

"Redbeard," he sobbed, his cheeks sticky with salt. "No..."

The doctor did all he could to soothe his friend, rubbing circles into his hands and wiping at his sallow face, but it seemed the drug wasn't relinquishing its hold - eventually, John opted to hushing him softly, warming his chilled fingers between his calloused palms. Half an hour of misery passed before the tears subsided, and Sherlock curled and sniffled, shoulders relaxing, and appeared to collapse I tiredly into a more restful sleep.

John sighed, his breath shuddering, and stood. His friend, usually larger than life itself, looked so small amongst the bedsheets. The doctor tucked the duvet up to the detective's ears and smiled fondly as Sherlock smacked his chapped lips, before standing to brew himself a much needed cup of tea.

*

He was drawn back to the room by a bang.

"John!"

The doctor opened the door to find a dishevelled Sherlock sprawled on the floor, tangled up in the sheet he'd worn to Buckingham Palace merely hours earlier. "You okay?"

"How did I get here?"

"Well, I don't suppose you remember much." The detective looked puzzled, and so John took that as a yes. "You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh - I should warn you, I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."

Sherlock seemed indifferent, and clambered unsteadily to his feet. "Where is she?"

"Where's who?"

"The woman." He blinked blearily, pointing a lax finger. "That woman."

"What woman?"

He stumbled around the room aimlessly, clearly frustrated. "_The_ woman. The _woman_ woman!"

"What Irene Adler?" He took a step further into the room, worried about Sherlock's clearly fawn-like feet. "She got away. No one saw her." Sherlock threw himself towards the open window, peering through it as if somehow the answers lay on the other side. John almost thought he'd fall through. "She wasn't here, Sherlock." Turning around at breakneck speed, the detective fell onto the floor - John would have said deliberately if he hadn't known any better - and began clawing at the floorboards, searching under the bed for a bloody dominatrix. "What are you...?" He then glanced over at the wardrobe, frowning at the space underneath that. "What?" John wondered if he'd gone completely mad. _What on earth was in that syringe? _

"No, no, no," John looped his arms underneath his friend's, hauling his gangly form upright. "No." He dumped him on top of the sheets, dragging them over his legs in the process. "Back to bed. You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."

Sherlock looked up at him blearily, head sinking with the weight of exhaustion. "Of course I'll be fine. I _am_ fine. I'm absolutely fine."

John thought back to an hour previously, when the detective had been weeping pitifully into his pillow, and wondered how much truth was actually in that statement. As horrifying as the experience had been, it was probably for the best - now, the doctor knew how closely he should be watching his friend. For the moment, he decided to humour him.

"Yes, you're great." Sherlock's head slumped. "Now I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" Sherlock asked, voice muffled by the linen.

John closed his eyes, fists clenching. "No reason at all." 


	9. Epilepsy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is diagnosed with epilepsy as a young child. This chapter is an insight into Sherlock and Mycrofts relationship as brothers, both present day and growing up.
> 
> Warning for minor depictions of vomit.

The suspicion began when John caught Sherlock staring at a wall for several hours. This was not unusual - the detective often glared pointlessly at a wall for lack of better things to do; or he would simply appear to be watching a wall as he sank into the depths of his mind palace. There was something particular about this moment however, and that was because for a large part of the time he spent vacant, he was also smacking his lips, over and over again.

John watched with a frown as the younger man consistently opened his mouth and closed it again with a slight_ puck_, imitating a dazed, beached fish. The doctor was sure he had never witnessed such odd behaviour before whilst Sherlock pondered, but then again, he was a very odd man.

The suspicion increased in volume when Sherlock returned from a case stiff and bone-weary one evening. John had been working monotonously at the clinic for the past week, attempting to earn some wages in order to pull his economic weight in the flat, and had been paying little attention to Sherlock between shifts. That Friday, as the night grew an eclectic blue, the detective stumbled through the doorway with a wince, falling onto the sofa with a stubbornness exceeding his mental capacity. The older man had observed as the younger massaged small circles into his neck and lower back, groaning like an individual of greater age than the athletic soul he was. He had even offered to help, and was surprised by the hesitation before Sherlock's dismissal. It was rare for the man to even consider such trivial medical help.

What confirmed his suspicions, though, was when Mycroft marched his way into 221B, with his younger brother's arm thrown haphazardly over his shoulder.

*

Sherlock had come to Mycroft's office to exchange some repetitive quips concerning brotherly matters such as the younger's knighthood and the older's attendance to a play with mummy. There was absolutely no way Sherlock was going to witness 'Wicked' or anything else as obviously evil, and he didn't care if Mycroft had the Korean elections to worry about, this was simply more important.

It was never quite clear who won these debates, both brothers often asserting their own victory over conclusions, but needless to say this argument ended quite differently. Sherlock was barely through his sixty-fourth point when his tongue began sticking to the roof his mouth, and his eyes drew an unfocussed gaze over Mycroft's shoulder. It took the older Holmes a millisecond to deduce what would happen next - but despite all his sociopathy, he would never quite get used to witnessing Sherlock in the throes of a seizure.

*

The first time it has occurred it was quite minor, and it would have been missed had Mycroft not been so perceptive. Sherlock was five at the time, his steel eyes beginning to adopt a sharper appearance, and he was now mature enough that he would sit at the dinner table without too much of a fuss. It was over ham and peas that little Sherlock's sharp eyes became softer, staring endlessly into the air's particulates as he quietly consumed his ham. Sherlock remained at the table even once his plate had been taken, and Mycroft watched as he became lucid once more, looking longingly down at the grains of wood.

It then he had looked up at his brother with watery eyes. "I haven't had tea yet," he said, curling his hands into fists. "You didn't let me finish!"

Mycroft frowned as he observed his mother placing Sherlock's empty dish into the sink. The little boy kicked his brother's shins and screamed until a second serving was placed in front of him.

Now, Mycroft was only twelve at the time, but he might as well have been a scholar. He spent that following evening staring up at the ornate plaster trim, feet crossed neatly in bed. Sherlock was not a stupid young lad, and it seemed odd for him to forget consuming tea altogether - Mycroft folded his pale hands over his shirt, contemplative. If he didn't know any better, he would have said his brother had been daydreaming - except, he did know better. Because even whilst the ham was still on his fork, Sherlock was already chewing.

Mycroft kept the knowledge of Sherlock's absence seizure to himself for the following week - partially wanting to be sure of his conclusions, and partially hoping he was mistaken. He kept a close eye on the toddler as he pottered about the garden with his wooden sword and paper hat, watching for any signs that his mind may have left him, but as the days went on, it appeared more and more like the event had been a singularity. That was, until Saturday evening came to pass.

Mycroft was finishing off some menial homework in his room at around seven when he heard it. Sherlock had usually worn himself out by this time and would be softly sleeping in bed, but as the elder Holmes' hand glided over the quadratic functions, he heard a snuffle, and then an almost _nervous_, "Mycroft?"

This wasn't the first time he had been summoned by Sherlock from the adjacent bedroom, but he had been on edge since that first dinner, and quickly found himself on his feet and in Sherlock's doorway. It was early spring, and a gentle light eased in from the window, illuminating the boy's rounded ivory cheeks and glassy eyes as he sat loosely hunched on the bedsheets. Immediately, Mycroft knew something was wrong - and although he was often not the warmest of siblings, he cared deeply for the small child on the bed. Brow creased with worry, the red-head knelt down beside Sherlock's pillow, laying a hand about an inch away from his brother's knobbly knee.

"I don't feel good Myc," he whispered, lip trembling a little as he turned wide eyes on his brother. Mycroft leaned forward, lips pursed. "I feel all wobbly inside here." He pressed shaking hands onto his stomach, refusing to drop the other Holmes' gaze.

"You feel sick?" Sherlock shook his head, frowning. He opened his mouth to say something, lips parted enough to show a row of tiny milk teeth, when a pained gasping noise came instead. His eyes rolled back into his head as he stiffened, and he proceeded to fall sideways and almost completely off the bed if Mycroft hadn't caught him with both arms, and tenderly laid him down on the carpet.

It was a second later that his little figure began to convulse. Mycroft closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and quickly reached for the cushion to cradle Sherlock's jerking head. He watched on quietly as his younger sibling's thin limbs seized, trying to contain his horror as his elbows quickly grew red with carpet burns and he felt the floor become warm beneath his palms. It lasted just over two minutes, but it could easily have been hours. Mycroft released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when the younger Holmes finally went still.

Thankfully, Sherlock's irregular breathing had evened out, and he turned the toddler onto his side, just as the leaflet he'd stolen from the doctor's office had said to do. His tartan pyjama bottoms were dark where his bladder had emptied under the pressure. Only then did he shout for their mother, voice shaking just slightly as he explained the situation to an ashen-faced Lydia Holmes.

Just under a month later, Sherlock was diagnosed with epilepsy, and was beginning to manage most of his seizures with a mixture of AEDs. A year and a half later, Sherlock received Redbeard for his seventh birthday, a russet Irish setter with long downy ears. He wore a blue clip-on jacket with bright red letters, and became Sherlock's shadow; quiet unless he was minutes from a seizure. His bark essentially became the young detective's lifeline, and their friendship was enough for Sherlock to continue his happy childhood.

*

Mycroft circled around the desk, hands already reaching forward. He didn't bother calling out his brother's name - simply laid his hands upon the younger man's shoulders and gently guided him down to the floor, his blazer folded under his head. As expected, the consulting detective began to flail a minute later, saliva pooling around his lips. Petty argument forgotten, the elder Holmes began to clear the floor as thoroughly as possible in order to prevent Sherlock from hurting himself on any hardwood. Thankfully, the rug wasn't at all abrasive, and his arms and legs were of course covered by his thick collared coat.

Mycroft knew all he could do now was wait for the seizure to pass, but that didn't make it any easier. Watching his brother - usually so cool and collected - jerk uncontrollably on the floor dragged a lump from his stomach to his throat; he often found himself breathing rapidly with panic, but desperate to keep a calm facade for when Sherlock would wake. He couldn't help it. He loved his brother as any decent sibling should, and any suffering that befell him would be felt threefold in his heart.

Mycroft's fist clenched as blood began to mingle with the spit at the corners of Sherlock's lips, and he let the memories wash over him as his body grew tense with the passing minutes.

*

Sherlock's AEDs worked effectively for the majority of his youth, and his epilepsy became a part of him he could quietly manage with little upheaval. But despite his protests, any time his brother was home he would follow him into his bedroom, always there to speak gently to him when he came round, and provide painkillers for the headache that ensued. Despite the angry glares he would often shoot his senior, he was secretly grateful for the company when he woke up stiff and disorientated. And sometimes, although he was too stubborn to admit it, he did need that extra help getting into bed.

It was well into Sherlock's fourteenth year that the table's turned. Mycroft was home from university for Christmas, and the family were drinking rich sherry around a log fire when the younger Holmes noiselessly dismissed himself from the room, red-coated dog in tow. Naturally, the elder followed him. Although he glared bitterly, Sherlock said nothing as he lay himself down, face turned blankly towards the ceiling.

Mycroft took up one side and Redbeard the other as the seizure began, but unlike those in the past, it didn't seem to end. Mycroft checked his watch as four minutes passed, and then again after six, before drawing out his substantial Nokia to dial the emergency services. He shouted for their mother, and then screamed for their father when Sherlock bit his tongue harshly and blood began to dribble down his cheek. After eleven minutes, the seizure finally stopped, and although all were unbelievably grateful for the stillness, the teenager's chest also remained resolutely motionless. Lydia had collapsed and begun to sob; Gregory was soon shouting at the dog to _please stop that godawful whining_, whilst Mycroft, fingers shaking, had gripped Sherlock's nose and pressed his mouth to his little brother's sticky lips, shuddering at the coppery taste of blood as he breathed for his only real friend.

One, two... nineteen, twenty. Five forced breaths. One, two... a broken rib... eighteen, nineteen...

"_Where's the fucking ambulance_?" Mr Holmes had howled. _The ice_, Mycroft had thought as he pressed his lips to Sherlock's once more. _The ice on the roads_.

Both his mother and father had resolved to sitting by their son's side, stroking his hand with the soft pads of their thumbs and murmuring quietly, when Sherlock finally took a breath. Mycroft nearly wailed with relief when he turned his brother on his left hip as he choked and eventually heaved onto the old Victorian rug. Lydia had gripped his shoulder, frantically telling him to let it all out, they would clean the rug, they would _burn_ the rug - "Breathe, sweetheart," she had whispered like a mantra next to Sherlock's ear, stroking his dark mop of hair.

Of all that happened that day, Mycroft will always remember one moment most distinctly. As his mother left to let the paramedics into the house, his little brother had turned to him, breath raspy, and reached out a hand. "Myc," he had wheezed, fingers gently squeezing his saviours wrist - before his head fell to the side and he lost consciousness once more.

*

Mycroft huffed heavily as Sherlock stilled, consoled by his even breathing and lightly flickering eyelids. Since that Christmas, Sherlock had been put on a more aggressive treatment, and it was rare for any of his tonic-clonic seizures to become too serious anymore. The elder Holmes rubbed the detective's shoulder soothingly as he came to, smiling slightly when those blue eyes finally met his own.

"Welcome back, little brother." He spoke gently, noting the crease of pain between Sherlock's eyebrows. Said brother groaned, closing his eyes. They sat in silence for several minutes, before Sherlock tilted his head.

"Damn it," he moaned, shifting where he lay. "These are new trousers."

Mycroft placed a strong hand on his lower back, helping him sit up. He had Anthea bring them a glass of water and watched, a little light-headed, as Sherlock drank. "Ugh," he said, spitting blood into the glass. "I've bitten my bloody tongue."

"It happens," the politician conceded.

Knowing the detective would want to be back in 221B as soon as possible, he called for a car and, with some effort, helped an incredibly woozy Sherlock into the back seat. Sherlock was so exhausted, in fact, that he leant his head against his older brother's shoulder and began snoring softly, much to Mycroft's disgust.

John, of course, was a little shocked by the state of the detective. "He's had a seizure," Mycroft quietly explained, and upon seeing John's even more puzzled expression, ended tactfully with, "he has epilepsy."

John was a medical man, after all - he would surely figure it out. Nevertheless, as the elder Holmes left the flat, he stopped briefly, and turned to look affectionately at the long line of his brother's sleeping form upon the sofa. "Look after him, Dr. Watson," he ordered carefully, before sweeping silently from the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to correct me if I have anything wrong.


	10. Meningitis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are freshers at Durham University. Unfortunately, someone hasn't had their vaccinations.
> 
> Warning for graphic depiction of vomit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you starting university this September, please, please remember to have your meningitis vac.

John Watson had been warned about Fresher's Flu, and as a budding medical student, had dismissed it with a scoff – but as he was now discovering, hangovers were no small deal. In fact, after six straight nights of hard-core drinking, John had awoken with both a spectacular headache and the taste of regurgitated jaeger in his mouth, and thus thanked the gods that both Sunday and Monday were void of lectures. He wasn't sure how much of a seminar he could absorb whilst this deep in his own woes.

Stumbling from his bed, John pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning as the room lurched violently around him. He picked his way through dirty laundry – and a tiara that he was ninety per cent certain _was not__his_– and leaned over the sink by his wardrobe, fumbling with the tap so he could fill a plastic cup with cool water. Chucking back two paracetamol and an ibuprofen, he sighed at how much better he felt already, before splashing the same water onto his face. A quick brush of his teeth and a hand through his hair later, John could move onto the next order of business – the piss he'd probably been needing since 3 AM. He could even have a shower whilst he was at it. Picking up his wash bag, John opened the door to his room and peered down the corridor, eyes clocking onto the bathroom he shared with seven other guys.

It was occupied. Typical.

The first-year held back a pathetic whine as he took up the spot next to the door, jumping up and down as if such an action would prevent him from wetting himself. He had just taken to wondering whether he should break the rules and use the bathroom the girls shared on the floor below, when luckily, the shower shut off, and John heard someone scrabbling around inside for their things. Moments later, a dishevelled, skinny youth appeared, shivering in an oversized beige towel.

There was a moment where they both seemed to be in each other's way, and in this moment, the dry man looked the wet one up and down. He was tall, pale, and an array of dark locks stuck to his forehead, freshly washed. In another life, John would have found him rather handsome – in this one, he was busting for a wee. "Sorry mate," he muttered, stepping to the side, and the taller boy chuckled as he shook.

"Thank Christ for that," he said as he strode past. His voice was husky and deep, leaving John's bladder momentarily forgotten. He frowned.

"Thank Christ for what?" he asked curiously as this mysterious man began fumbling with his keys. Stark blue eyes met his, alight with mirth, and John marvelled at how perfect he looked, especially after a week like Fresher's. His own mirror this morning had shown him eye-bags and a five o'clock shadow, and he suddenly felt self-conscious.

"You're from London," the darker said, mouth pulling up into a smirk. "We're surrounded by Northerners. It's nice to hear someone with a more familiar accent."

John couldn't help but smile. "Have you figured out what 'scran' means yet?"

"I believe it's a sort of food." He opened his door. "And well... All food here means potatoes. There appears to be little else at dinner-time."

The blonde laughed shortly. "I'm John," he called to him just as he stepped into his bedroom.

The boy popped his head around the doorjamb, eyebrow raised. "Sherlock Holmes," he said shortly, before snapping the door shut.

John stood still for a second, before the steady dripping of the leaky tap in the bathroom brought him to his senses. "Fuck," he hissed, darting into the toilet. He really needed to piss.

*

The next time he saw him was at lunch the next day, scooping mashed potato onto his plate. It was better than the boiled potatoes from the day before, but still didn't quite beat Friday's chips – he shuffled along the queue, ignoring the other student's protests. "I'm beginning to wonder if they know how to cook anything else."

Sherlock looked up calmly, his pale jaw framed gorgeously by his navy roll-neck. John swallowed convulsively when their eyes met over his sloppy plate of green beans. "John Watson," he greeted coquettishly, and the shorter man blanched.

"How did you –"

"It's on your meal card," Sherlock explained coolly, nodding at John's tray.

"Right," John laughed, feeling silly. "Of course." They moved along in silence, dropping an array of questionable substances onto their plates. "So..." desperate to break the silence, John spoke up. "Other than the excessive potatoes, how are you finding Durham so far?"

Sherlock gazed at the ceiling. "Satisfactory," he concluded, filling his cup with squash. "My Chemistry course is prestigious enough, and the scenery is pleasant, but..."

The med student stared expectantly. "But what?"

Sherlock watched him, unsure if he should say it. In a fleeting glance, he assessed John Watson, and then sighed, complacent. "Despite its reputation, Fresher's Week did not help me find a place to fit in."

John nodded, understanding. "I know what you mean." And God, did he. Despite the masses of lads he drank with, and the innumerable girls he flirted at, he could not remember a single person's name, nor did he ever want to socialise with any of them for a second time. He'd briefly introduced himself to the other boys on his corridor, but none of them seemed interested, and quite frankly, neither was he – at the moment, university seemed a lot bleaker than he had hoped.

"I'm hoping once my course officially gets started, I can meet some more like-minded people." The brunette peered at him. "In fact, we might have some lectures together. Our degrees will be particularly similar in first year."

John stared at him. "Wait, you know I'm –"

"A medical student. Indeed," he clarified, marching quickly to the nearest table as he spoke. Once they were both situated across from each other, Sherlock placed his hands beneath his chin. "You're more intelligent than the average person, I can tell just by speaking to you. You agreed with my sentiments on Fresher's Week, which tells me you did not find the menial activities performed during that time at all interesting. Perhaps you are more acclimatised to a small social life – lots of studying, minimal procrastination – so, you took some demanding A-levels, such as Chemistry, and Biology, both renowned for their difficulty. Your nails are short – you've kept them so for practicals, and you eat a well-balanced meal, which suggests you are aware of your own health. Your bedside manner thus far has been impeccable – most with intent to pursue the medical career path have a kindness about them, I'm not sure why, but those who don't tend to struggle. And," he breathed quickly, finally pointing to John's rucksack, "_How we die: Reflections on Life's Final Chapter_ by Nuland is sticking out of your bag – it's a common tome on the 'suggested reading' list for medical students."

John blinked dumbly, and then once more. He cleared his throat, letting his spoonful of mash fall unceremoniously back onto his plate, splattering the toffee pudding sitting slovenly in the corner of his tray. Sherlock sipped his squash quietly, using his fork to push his food around. "I..." John rubbed his hands along his knees, astonished. "We've... only met each other twice." The other man grunted dismissively. "And you got all that from just... two tiny conversations?"

"Yes." Sherlock glanced nervously to the left, uncomfortable. "I have a knack for observation."

"A _knack_?" John stabbed a sausage with his fork, shaking his head and huffing in disbelief. "Mate, that was bloody incredible."

It was Sherlock's turn to drop his mash. "What?"

"I said, that was amazing." John looked about the hall, as if profiling another case study for Sherlock's gift. "Can you do it again?"

The taller boy coughed, bringing a hand up to scratch at his neck. "That's not what people usually say."

"And what is it they usually say?"

Sherlock smirked. "Piss off."

*

Immediately after, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson became, on some level, friends. They soon discovered that they shared two lectures a week together, and John found himself banging on Sherlock's door on both occasions so that they wouldn't be late. As it turned out, Sherlock Holmes was quite disorganised, and despite his genius, was often found running into vital seminars half-an-hour late, and with one shoe on. In-between lectures, the two spent their first week in the library, studying and chatting about their home lives, until Saturday soon approached, and they came to an important decision – that they must act like normal university students, and go out on the town.

"Mike Stamford says Klute is fun," John suggested, packing up his notes. "But we need to bring an old pair of shoes if we go. Apparently you step in all kinds of shit."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, disgusted. "It proudly advertises that it's the worst club in Europe – but somehow, it's everyone's favourite?"

John shrugged. "It's Durham culture, right?" He paused. "Or at least, Durham student culture..."

"Well, I suppose I should see what the fuss is about." They began walking back to Bailey court, books in hand and the night sky pulsing with music above them. "But, I can't promise anything. Clubs are bound to be overcrowded on a Saturday..." He shuddered. "I might have to start off with a slow Monday."

John laughed loudly as he keyed in the code to their block, and began muttering about pathetic excuses. The door gave a monotonous beep and clicked open, just as Sherlock rubbed his palms together and shivered.

"About fucking time," he muttered, and then pushed his way into the block, arms practically holding himself together for the shaking. John frowned. It was still early October, and although the temperature up North was considerably lower, it wasn't quite cold enough to be shivering in a Belstaff coat.

"You okay mate?" he asked with what could only be trepidation, and Sherlock shot him a withering look, pausing halfway up the stairs. John swallowed.

"I'm perfectly fine, John," he answered, rolling his eyes. "I just had a chill pass over me, is all."

So, John left it at that.

*

He didn't see much of Sherlock the next day. He awoke late, at approximately fifteen minutes past twelve, and got twisted in the blankets in his rush to get out of bed. He shrieked loudly when he hit the floor with a loud _thump_, and hoped to hell that he hadn't woken any hung-over teenagers in the next rooms over.

As it turned out, most of the corridor was empty, including Sherlock's room. John knocked three times, but it appeared as if Sherlock had left him to sleep – perhaps so he could get some particularly difficult Chemistry done on his own. John scoffed. Sherlock, struggling with Chemistry? _Likely story_.

So where was he then?

The budding doctor spent the rest of the day jumping between studying, and picking an outfit for the evening. He'd been out plenty of times already, but this would be his first time out with _Sherlock_. With the way the man rolled out of bed practically screaming perfection, could you blame him for not wanting to look like a complete and utter twat?

And it wasn't odd that he put on a little extra aftershave. Or that he _brushed his hair_. There was _nothing strange_ about putting in a little bit of extra effort.

They'd agreed they'd do a small pre-drinks in John's room at around 10:00 PM, and at around 10:15, the medical student grew restless. Straightening his jacket, he wandered over to the room opposite, rapping on the poorly painted door.

There was some shuffling and cursing from inside, and worryingly the smashing of a glass, but eventually Sherlock answered. He looked a little pale and dishevelled, but otherwise, he appeared sharp and graceful as always as he leant against the doorframe, brow creased in confusion.

"John...?"

"Pres, at ten." He shifted where he stood. "You almost ready?"

The taller boy straightened his tailored shirt, a deep purple that made his skin appear even softer than usual. "Sorry, yes," he said, taking his key from behind the door and closing it behind him. "What drinks have you got?"

"Uh, tequila?"

Sherlock shuddered. "Foul. What else?"

"I have some peach schnapps, you can mix it with lemonade..." he paused. "And some Tesco's vodka?"

"Lovely," he drawled sarcastically, smirking. "I suppose I shall have to hold my nose and bear it. How many shots are socially acceptable?"

Needless to say, enough shots that they were both sufficiently tipsy when they left their block at five to eleven, and sprinted to Klute in order to make the free entry before the clock hit the hour. A burly security guard regarded their IDs dismissively before waving them inside, where they were soon smothered by a sweaty throng of their peers and a remix of _How to Save a Life._

Sherlock cleared his throat, leaning in until they were inches apart. "I don't know much about music," he shouted over the racket, "but isn't this supposed to be a sad song?"

John chuckled, and then found he couldn't stop. Grinning madly, he took his friend by the hand without thinking, and dragged him further into the mess. "Just dance!" he screamed, barely audible over the noise of other students following along.

_Where did I go wrong?_

Sherlock started moving awkwardly, barely in time. He was right – perhaps a slow Monday would have been better suited.

_I lost a friend –_

"John!" The medical student turned reluctantly to face him, temporarily ending his conversation with the blonde who'd sidled up behind them. "I'm not sure I like this."

_Somewhere along in the bitterness._

"Just give it a chance, Sherlock!" John looked a little exasperated, and the other man immediately felt guilty. It wasn't fair for him to ruin John's good time...

_And I would have stayed up with you all night –_

It took him a while, but he found the bar. Pulling out a handful of cash, he ordered five jaeger bombs – but by the time he'd turned around to share them, John had disappeared into the crowd.

_Had I known, how to save a life._

_*_

John awoke the next day to a commotion.

He groaned dismally as the pounding in his head was accompanied by the slamming of a door on its hinges, and the crass slap of feet on linoleum as someone stumbled to the bathroom. He pulled himself upright just as the culprit heaved, and he couldn't help but grimace at the sound of puke hitting the sides of the loo. Someone hadn't had a good night.

Deciding that perhaps some comfort couldn't hurt, he slipped on his trainers and thrust open the door. Immediately, the stench of vomit assaulted his nostrils, and he paled, trying not to gag himself. Whoever it was had left the bathroom door open, something the other residents would not be happy about once the smell began to pollute their whole floor. Shaking his head, he took a step into the corridor – and froze.

Sherlock's back convulsed as another painful retch ripped through his throat, and he brought up another sweaty hand to cradle the toilet bowl, head almost disappearing completely as he brought up the rest of his meagre stomach contents. John rushed to his side, immediately placing a hand on his soaked t-shirt as the other student heaved again, his whole body lurching forward as more vomit hit the dirty water. "Shit, Sherlock," John cursed, rubbing his back in circles as each retch brought forth more bile. The poor boy was shaking violently when things began to calm, and he sat back on his knees, trying not to meet John's steady gaze.

He looked like hell. His complexion had taken on a sallow grey, matched only by the deep circles beneath his eyes, and John felt his heart constrict at the sight of tears and snot on the young man's face. He quickly reached behind him and folded a wad of tissue, before gently wiping at the mess. It seemed the only available way to ease his discomfort.

"How much did you have to drink?" John asked, concerned. With the way things appeared, he wouldn't be surprised if his friend had contracted alcohol poisoning. His only response was a reflexive swallow. "Sherlock, how much?"

"Barely anything, I swear –" the words had scarcely left his lips before he was gagging again, and John helped manoeuvre him back towards the toilet before he made a mess of the floor. He sighed in sympathy at Sherlock's agonised groaning between heaves, and moved to rub his back again, feeling helpless. But even a trainee medic could do little for a hangover...

Sherlock spat acid and saliva into the bottom of the loo, before resting his head against the cool porcelain lip. "Everything hurts," he mumbled, eyes closed against the roiling of his stomach.

"Yeah, that tends to be how it goes." John stood, patting Sherlock on the shoulder. "Come on, mate. Let's get you back to bed."

"I can't move," he whispered, pressing a hand weakly to his abdomen. John shook his head.

"Not the time for dramatics," he said, bending and lifting his friend from under the arms. Sherlock moaned, long and low, before falling sideways into the doorway, breathing heavy, measured breaths.

"Hang on –" John put the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead. It was uncomfortably warm. "Fuck," he summarised eloquently, pressing his other hand to his friend's cheek. "You're burning up!"

Sherlock blinked wearily, leaning into John's touch. His gut churned nastily, emitting a loud gurgle. "'M gonna be sick," was the only warning John had before Sherlock lunged for the toilet again. John half-held him upright as he burped wetly, bringing up nothing but spittle.

"This is not good," he said, gently lowering his friend to the floor. The other student made a small noise of discomfort at the change in position, the ache in his muscles intensifying – even his diaphragm protested when he breathed, and he soon felt as if he was choking.

"Holy hell, Sherlock." He gave him a thump on the back as his friend coughed drily into a fist. "You're scaring me. When did you get sick?"

"I don't –" the room swayed sickeningly, and he threw out a hand to grasp John's knee, anything to ground him. "I don't know –"

"What about last night?" John felt bad for drilling him – he could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock's hand through his pyjama pants. "How did you feel last night?"

"Was... cold." He shivered, squeezing his eyes shut. The lights hurt so much...

"Sherlock? Sherlock. I need you to stay with me." The brunette squinted at him. "Do you have a headache?"

"Nnghh." He moved to put his head on his knees, but only made it halfway before his neck screamed in agony. He hissed, his whole body cramping. John noticed.

"Does your neck hurt?" He sounded panicked now. "Sherlock, no. Wake up. _Does your neck hurt?_"

"Yes," he said through gritted teeth, unable to supress the violent shudder that worked its way up through his legs. "John, please –"

"Oh fuck, Sherlock, no. Don't do this to me." He brought out his phone, already halfway to dialling an ambulance. "Tell me you had your shots. Tell me you weren't a _fucking idiot_who came to uni _without a meningitis shot_."

Sherlock couldn't answer. His body went rigid against the door, eyes glazing over.

John barely had time to press the dial button before his first and only friend at university began seizing.

*

_Meningococcal B._

Common, but deadly. For Sherlock, it came on suddenly, incubating slowly in his body after Fresher's Week, before cruelly and suddenly overpowering his immune system. John wonders if he himself had carried it, at the back of his throat, and had passed it on when he'd first met Sherlock outside the bathroom.

John was a medical student – he knew how these things went. He knew why they pressured students into getting the vaccine before starting their first year. He knew 5 – 10% of bacterial meningitis cases were fatal. He knew 15% of those who did not succumb to the disease were left with disabling complications, sometimes for the rest of their lives – that Sherlock might not come out of this unscathed.

John wasn't family – technically, he was barely a friend – and so he sat huddled in the waiting room, a tepid coffee held loosely between his fingers. He'd been here since they'd rushed his friend in for a lumbar puncture, had dutifully taken the ciprofloxacin they'd given him, and had remained in the same position until way past breakfast back at the castle. At this moment in time, they'd be administering an intense course of antibiotics in an attempt to combat the bacteria multiplying in Sherlock's bloodstream. He felt sick.

"Mr Watson?"

John looked up so quickly he felt a rush of vertigo; shaking his head, he focussed on the man looming over him. He wore a neatly pressed suit, completed with a silver-blue tie, and leaned on an umbrella with his right hand. There was something about his face that John recognised, but no, his eyes were too wide-set, and his nose too rounded...

"You... are, Mr Watson, correct?"

John cleared his throat quickly. "Um, yes. Sorry," he added on for good measure.

The older man smirked. "I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother. I was called upon his admission. Might you update me on his condition?"

"Uh... He's got, meningitis... I think it came on last night –" John frowned. "Wait, why are you asking me?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. It did not suit his already aloof features. "You are his friend, are you not?"

John laughed. "Well, yeah. But they won't even let me in the bloody room, so, _they_clearly don't think so."

"Ah." He gave his umbrella a spin. "Give me a minute, Mr Watson."

John scoffed – he'd been staring at the opposite wall aimlessly for hours, a minute hardly mattered. He took the opportunity to swig his coffee, and almost spat it back into the cup.

"You can go through now."

John jumped, almost spilling his drink down himself. Mycroft Holmes raised an eyebrow from the door. "How –"

"I merely explained that although you've had the vaccine, perhaps if would be best if you stayed in quarantine with Sherlock. But –" he held up a mask. "You have to wear this."

John nodded solemnly, reaching out to accept the offered hospital gear. He slipped the disposable paper mask over his face, hands shaking only slightly.

He wanted to be a doctor. He could not – would not – be frightened.

Except, despite only knowing Sherlock for a week, he felt he had formed a bond with him. During Fresher's Week, meaningless conversation after meaningless conversation had left him exhausted and lonely. His mingling had been a hopeless endeavour – and then Sherlock had waltzed in wearing nothing but a towel; and John wasn't so scared about this big thing called _The Future_, anymore.

A nurse intercepted them a few paces before they could reach the ICU. John hadn't even noticed they were almost there, distracted by his musings.

"Before you go in," she said in a calm, measured tone, "he has been put on a course of cephalosporins, as well as an aminoglycoside – but we've also inserted a breathing aid, as he showed signs of breathing difficulties upon admission." She seemed to assess each of their reactions to the news. "It is procedure to inform you of the treatments and measures that have been put into place, so that you are not alarmed upon seeing the patient."

John was glad she had prepared them. He had to look away upon seeing Sherlock, who seemed more tubes than person, but the tell-tale hiss of the ventilator disallowed him his own preservations. Mycroft huffed quietly, before murmuring something about speaking with the doctors, and leaving the room. John wondered if he, too, could not bear the sight of the man on the bed.

It took everything the medical student had not to run from the ward – he hoped that when his real training began, he wasn't this weak-willed – and he restrained the urge to recoil when he took Sherlock's cool hand in his own. He looked nothing like the man he'd first met, all charm and wit, dark hair curling around alabaster flesh like an ink pen on fresh, thick parchment. His skin seemed almost transparent now, more off-white than the sheets, and his hair limp as it sat plastered to his forehead, which throbbed with fever.

John grit his teeth. This wasn't fair. It shouldn't be allowed. A week was not enough time to constitute this much worry.

And yet, there he sat, for hours and hours on end.

*

At 6 AM the next day, Sherlock's temperature spiked, and he went into a second seizure. The doctors suspected meningococcal septicaemia, and took another blood sample. In a flurry of activity, the antibiotics course was changed, and increased in strength, and Sherlock was put into a medically induced coma in order to better fight the infection. It was suspected that Sherlock's body had shown resistance to the cephalosporins, and John laughed at the irony of it – of course he would be stubborn about the whole thing.

Except, it wasn't funny.

It wasn't funny at all.

*

The rash presented on Sherlock's lower back, and on the third day of his hospitalisation, it began to bleed. John, after being cleared by the doctors, had left to attend one of his afternoon lectures – when he returned, Sherlock had been rolled onto his side, the IV, catheters and ventilator adjusted to accommodate this new position. He looked even frailer, this way.

Mycroft was standing at the end of the bed. "They had to treat the wounds on his back," he commented distastefully, gesturing with his umbrella. John swallowed thickly, regarding the fresh bandage and the unsettling protrusion of his friend's spine with something akin to horror.

In just three days, he had grown so thin.

"It doesn't look so good, does it Mr Watson?"

John's head snapped round, mouth open and prepared to shriek every profanity, but the elder Holmes had already left, the tapping of his umbrella a ghostly echo on the floor. He croaked, and then choked, knees buckling as he slumped into the bedside chair.

He hated him for it, but Mycroft was right. It could not look less good – John wasn't sure he had seen anything so 'not good' in all his life.

It was in this moment that John Watson realised that, perhaps, Sherlock Holmes would die. And John wasn't sure that, if this happened, he could risk ever making a friend here again.

*

On the sixth day, Sherlock finally began to respond to treatment.

John could have cried with relief. They began to wean him off the Diprivan, which had been keeping him under, until they ceased the dose completely that evening.

"He should wake in the next few hours," the nurse told him, making notes on his chart quietly. John nodded, smiling.

When he did awake, Sherlock's first reaction was panic. They had not removed the ventilator, and so the young man had weakly fumbled with the machine, BP increasing in tempo as he watched John with wide, fearful eyes. The other student hushed him, whispering soothing words and taking his hands away from the equipment. He massaged Sherlock's palms with his own, shaking fingers.

"You've been really poorly," he told him in soft tones when he had finally calmed down. "Really poorly. God, you scared me half to death." He pointed at the tubes. "You're still going to need all these for a bit."

Sherlock hardly reacted to John's ministrations. He just stared, chest rising and falling in time with his heart rate.

Not ten minutes later, he had fallen asleep. 

*

The next time he woke, he could not stop coughing. They removed the ventilator.

Once the cannula was fitted, he cleared his throat desperately, until John dutifully fed him sips of water. He shook with only the effort of lifting his head, and had to resist crying in front of his friend – he did not want to look more pathetic than he already felt.

"How long?" he asked instead, and John straightened, looking away. He seemed hesitant, but answered.

"A week." He gnawed on his bottom lip. "You woke up yesterday, but I don't know if you remember much."

Sherlock thought back. He did not.

"You haven't been attending lectures." John shook his head. "Why?"

The blonde stared. "You almost died," he said flatly. There was a heavy moment of silence then, the gentle beeping and humming of machinery the only melody between them. Until –

"Why the fuck didn't you get your meningitis vaccination?"

"What?"

John clenched his fists. "The one they sent letters about. The one you were supposed to have before university, because it prevents _this_." The last word came out as a hiss, his anger slowly but surely getting the better of him.

"I –" Sherlock laid still, mouth moving urgently as he sought an explanation for this lapse in judgement. But there was none. "I... don't know." His friend laughed humourlessly, chair scraping horridly against the cheap white floor. He swiped a set of books from the table by the bed, shoving them angrily into his bag, one of the pages ripping in the process.

"I've got a tutorial," he growled harshly, making for the door. "Wishing you a speedy recovery, mate."

"John, wait –"

The door slammed with a crude finality.

*

Three weeks later, Sherlock Holmes vacated room 221B, and dropped out of Durham University. The room was taken up by a second year Philosophy student soon after. The change went unnoticed by everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I get a ton of questions, this ending was on purpose. I wanted this fic to reflect my experiences at Durham university, especially with the friends I made there. So it's a little abrupt - creative choice. I adjusted some things - you can't actually study medicine at Durham but for the sake of this story, I made up the course. The rest is pretty accurate.


	11. 'The White Death'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Holmes becomes a victim of one of the most prevalent killers in Victorian England. Dr. Watson is, frankly, devastated.
> 
> I can only apologise for this one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Major Character Death.

"_Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget, what though amongst leaves hast never known –_"

"Dr. Watson, please." The good doctor glanced up from his book – a red thing, lined with a gauzy gold leaf – and lifted his greying brow. "My contemplative state is already hindered, by the oppressiveness of this unusual British summertime. I would appreciate your – how should I put this – sympathetic _silence_."

"Contemplation, you say?" Watson sat further upright in his chair, moving his collar about his neck in discomfort. "Of what? There are no cases, Holmes. Even the criminals have postponed their villainy in lieu of the humidity!"

"And you must pass the time by reading, what, romantic _poetry_?" Holmes appeared disgusted; his white upper lip pulled taut over his teeth. "I should think Keats would make existence feel all the more stagnant."

"Ah!" Watson shouted, "you know Keats as if by rote, then. Perhaps the great Sherlock Holmes has an inclination for the romantic, after all."

Holmes huffed. "My mother adores him. Read him to me as a child. It was practically abuse."

"You _are _dramatic."

Holmes' glare was so sharp it would have cut through the window-glass, had the window not already been swung wide and allowing the sluggish passage of sour air into the room. Dr. Watson returned to the page, lifting his chin and clearing his throat. "_The weariness, the fever, and the fret –"_

"_Dr. Watson_!"

He ploughed on. "_Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; where but to think is to be full of sorrow and leaden-eyed despairs, where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow._"

Holmes grunted where he sat, eyes closed. "How... morbid."

"I suppose. And to think, the poor fellow passed of the consumption only three years later!" Watson shook his head. "Perhaps he thought it less romantic then."

"I never understood those who saw beauty and intrigue in _tuberculosis_, of all things."

"Well, you do not understand many, old friend." Watson stared slovenly past the billowing curtain for a moment, before forsaking propriety, and in a movement quite unlike him, undid his collar and the next button forthwith. "But no, it is true – there is no beauty in death."

Holmes frowned. "You misunderstand me, Dr. Watson. I do not dare suggest there is no beauty in death – there surely is – I undertook this profession hence. But tuberculosis is so... commonplace, so unimaginative. One could perhaps say, _boring_."

There was a short laugh from the doctor. "How singular of you to say. It is expected from you, I should suppose." He closed his book softly, setting it carefully on the side table. "You are losing your ability to surprise me, Holmes."

"Perhaps I should become more expected," the consulting detective mused, a crooked smirk adorning his mouth, "in order to become unexpected once more."

*

Watson would remember this conversation much later, with startling clarity.

It had started with a cough, as these things do. London winters were often unforgiving, and left many crippled by congestion and malaise, and with the poor care Holmes took with himself, it was unsurprising to the doctor that he, too, fell prey to a touch of influenza.

It did little to stop the detective, however. He stubbornly continued to pursue cases, despite Scotland Yard's pleas that he return to Baker Street and rest; he spent the majority of his waking hours scurrying about the flat, flinging his hands aloft nonsensically and making a downright mess; and, if anything, he must have eaten _less _than usual, for Watson saw before his naked eye Sherlock Holmes' frame become even slighter.

As Watson had initially with Holmes' persistent drug use, he withheld himself from protesting, wary once again of crossing the man – even if his conscience did, as before, consistently reproach him for his lack of courage. But the confrontation could not be delayed indefinitely, and as the detective's cough reached its fourth week of harassment, the doctor could no longer supress his natural urge to attend.

Holmes had gone to rest that night, unusually early, but Watson was kept up until dawn by both his own concern and Holmes' consistent hacking in the room below. The moment the morning light crept over the edge of his bedroom, Watson threw his bedclothes aside and, straightening his flannel nightshirt, ventured down to the detective's quarters.

Upon entering, he found that the curtains were open, and the sheets smoothed. The man himself was sat upright in bed, hands folded over his lap and expression patient. He had the appearance of someone who had been waiting for Watson's arrival. It shocked the doctor enough that his initial reprimand died on his lips, and instead, he woodenly sat himself in the room's complimentary armchair.

Holmes' expression was morose. Watson did his best to let this slip his notice.

"I know what you have come to ask, Dr. Watson," he began, clearing his abused throat. "I thought perhaps I could avoid this a while longer, but it appears not."

The doctor set his jaw. "If you do not let yourself rest, you will never recover, Holmes." The hollowness he saw then in the other man's countenance filled his stomach with river-stones. He approached his next sentence more dubiously. "I fear it will develop into something worse. Pneumonia, perhaps."

The detective took a moment to cough again into his handkerchief, thin fingers gripping his jaw tightly, and once he had finished, he angled the cloth away from Watson's sight. "Forgive me, my friend," he said softly, "but your fears are unfounded. I know what ails me, and I know, also, that I shall not recover from it." Watson felt the river-stones become lumps of molten rock. "I am dying, doctor."

Watson, feeling now like a soldier again, shivered in the sudden wintry aspect of the room. His flannel nightshirt did nothing to shield him from the cold panic that rose, like a crescendo, from within. He tensed every muscle, felt the deep-rooted ache that was his sinew turning to ice. He wanted to reject the detective's statement, claim that he was, once more, being dramatic – but Sherlock Holmes' words felt inexplicably true. So, there was only one thing to say.

"Why?" he managed to choke out.

"What is it they call it now?" Holmes' lips tilted up minutely into a sort of sickly smile, skin so eerily pale it could have been luminescent. "The White Death. The Robber of Youth. Cons –"

"Tuberculosis," the good doctor whispered, but he did not feel good at all.

"To be blunt."

"How can you be so sure?" Watson queried almost desperately, hands gripping the arms of the chair so tight his knuckles were at risk of bursting forth. "Surely, there must be a mistake?"

It was then that Holmes, who had been gripping his handkerchief so tightly, broke dear Watson's heart. For as he opened his palm, revealing the horror within, the older man's vision became shrouded in just _red, red, red_, bright and mocking on the inside of the cloth, on the tips of Holmes' fingers, at the edges of his lips. It was as if he had been blind, and only now saw the blood everywhere, all over both of them.

"There isn't much to be done." He was so nonchalant, as if he hadn't just shattered Watson's little world into millions of pieces. Watson wanted to feel angry, but in this sliver of time, in their pocket of space, he felt nothing but bottomless _despair_. A pit had opened below his feet, and he was falling.

But the detective smiled, and swinging his legs out of bed, stood. "Go wash up, Dr. Watson, and I shall meet you in the parlour in but half an hour." He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of his room. "We must waste no time."

"Time," Watson parroted back into the silence, suddenly confronted with the terrible notion of how little they had left.

*

Despite his considerable efforts, Sherlock Holmes did not remain himself for much longer.

Merely two months later, the detective's battle with breathing restricted him from his beloved chasing of criminals, and, in order to shelter himself from the still frozen air, he resolved to remain contained inside 221B Baker Street.

It was a miserable existence, and Watson could not help but feel an intense sympathy. Holmes' wings had been clipped, for lack of better phrase, and the inescapable impression that he could be spending the remainder of his existence incapacitated indoors deeply frustrated him. Not even his violin could soothe him, and before long, the flat fell into a melancholy silence.

Save for the coughing. It grew worse; became so debilitating, in fact, that the very violence of it fatigued Holmes. To his own vexation, he spent an inordinate amount of time dozing, only to be woken again by the terrible bacteria harboured within. With Mrs Hudson's assistance, Holmes' silk pillows had been replaced twice, and all three of his handkerchiefs succeeded by newer, cleaner ones.

In the beginning, Watson had been horrified by the severe progression of Holmes' disease. If his knowledge served him correctly, his father had survived more than a year, and Keats, who had found this frightful thing so romantic in 1819, had lived with tuberculosis for two. But with the speed of his friend's deterioration, the doctor feared Holmes may not last until the end of spring.

And then suddenly, it had all become clear. The drug habit – something that had been considered nothing more than a quirk to everyone other than Watson himself – could be the only explanation. Such prolonged use could only have weakened him, made him more susceptible to this plague, and now, acted as a catalyst, rushing the poor man into an early grave.

Over tea, the morning of this revelation, Watson had almost let his anger overtake him. Had almost bellowed this new information to Holmes whilst he shakily drew a china cup to his lips. But it had quickly dissipated. The detective was a wraith, not half the man he was, and there would be no sense in admonishing him for who he had once been. Instead, the good doctor had poured his friend another steaming cup, and returned to his reading of _The Strand. _

_*_

As March drew to a close, and April began to spread both her pollen and dewy showers across England, Watson finished packing his things at Baker Street.

At the request of Holmes' older brother, they were to move to one of his estates in the country. It was a last resort, in the hopes that the fresh air and sweet quiet would lead to an impossible recovery. In all truth, Watson was willing to try anything, even if the sight of Sherlock Holmes, now frail in his common suit and unable to carry his own luggage, did little to comfort him.

The house was modest, and warm; the parlour held a boisterous fireplace, and the large wooden beams and thick stone walls did well to shut out the cool rains and chilled nights. For a few weeks, Holmes did seem to improve. The country air invigorated him, and his complexion began to adopt a healthier tone. For the first time throughout this whole ordeal, Watson wondered if there was still a chance the detective might be one of the luckier few.

One evening, with the fire lit and casting sunset shadows over the walls and furniture, Holmes turned to him with bright eyes and a small smile. "Dr. Watson," he said, voice much stronger than it had been several weeks prior, "I must thank you."

The doctor met his gaze a little sharply, letting his book fall slowly into his lap. "Holmes," he breathed, "whatever for?"

"For everything you have done," the man continued, "both in the last few months, with this awful sickness, and even before then."

Watson shook his head. "I do not understand. Why should I deserve your gratitude?"

Holmes lost his smile, turning again to stare into the fire. "Surely you know," he said lowly, pulling his robe tighter across his thin frame. "You must. I am not certain how I should articulate it, otherwise."

A long silence. And then, "try."

The younger man lowered his eyes so that his lashes cast dark lines across the curve of his cheek. "Watson," he led gently, "you are more than just a doctor to me. You are more than someone to share my lodgings with. You are more than a convenience." He looked at Watson once more. "I think you always have been."

"Holmes –"

"Please," he continued, strained, "just know that you mean more to me than you can possibly fathom."

The doctor did not respond – it did not feel appropriate. But he did reach across the side table that stood between them, resting a calloused hand atop the arm of Holmes' chair. Not quite touching the man himself, but bridging the distance.

They sat in companionable silence thereafter, the fire soothing them both.

*

It would become apparent, in the following week, that the small improvements in Holmes' demeanour had been deceptive.

A sunnier Friday morning in the last week of April began with Holmes struggling to rise from bed. Watson found him, dreadfully pale once more, emaciated, and in terrible pain where he lay stiff on his back.

The disease had spread to his joints, causing a severe arthritis in his hips and knees, and when the doctor attempted to sit him upright, he appeared to be suffering with pain in his back also. He resolved to leave the man where he was, worrying his lip as he covered him with a thicker blanket. When he returned to his bedside with a hot broth, Holmes had no appetite for it, and so Watson set it aside and spent the rest of the morning sitting beside him, reading aloud.

Around one o'clock, he was stopped by his name. Weak, Holmes reached out with a hand, and instinctively, Watson took it. "Dr. Watson," he wheezed again, only to be wracked with violent coughs, hardly able to lift a hand to cover his mouth. When he was finished, the good doctor wiped the blood from his chin quietly, still taken by his frailty, before hushing the detective when the man tried to talk once more.

"Don't speak, Holmes," he said firmly, grasping his hand tighter. "It is not needed. I know what it is you want to say."

There was nothing but the crackling sound of his lungs as he regarded the older man, eyes almost as sharp as they had once been, a long time ago. And then he nodded, and held his doctor's gentle gaze until he fell asleep.

*

Sherlock Holmes passed away in his sleep the following Tuesday, minutes before May could light her first sun.

**"I know the colour of that blood! It is arterial blood. I cannot be deceived in that colour. That drop of blood is my death warrant. I must die."**

**(John Keats, 1820.)**


	12. Lung Cancer (SCLC)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in a post-John era. Sherlock at twenty-two is diagnosed with small cell lung cancer. Molly Hooper cares for him... deeply.
> 
> Warning for graphic depiction of vomit.

The flat felt hollow; the silence, a clarity. He could hear the fridge whirring lowly throughout the flat, the echo of the tap spitting into the metal sink, the floorboards, breathing. There were three blankets folded neatly on the armchair. The table was clear of vials, burners, books – and _clean_. It stunk of bleach.

Lestrade shivered.

He placed two Tesco bags on the counter, and took a moment to unload his goods into the fridge. He had no trouble, there were no organs or amputations to navigate around. At the end of it, there were just shelves of butter, milk, soup (Tesco's _finest_), salad, and other normal, nutritious fares. He put the bread and crackers in the top left cupboard, and thought long and painfully about how this was no longer 221B Baker Street.

He found Molly in the upstairs bedroom. She looked drawn, curled into the spare bedsheets with one hand twisted into the mattress and the other warmed against her cheek. Her under-eyes were dark, her hair limp and unwashed. He was loath to wake her.

"Ms. Hooper," he whispered, reaching down and gently grasping her shoulder. She shifted, stretching out her legs and squinting up at him. "Hi," he continued on quietly, "I've come to check up on you both."

She breathed harsh through her nose, sitting up quickly. "Oh," she said, looking around. The sun was setting. "I didn't mean to sleep so late."

"I'm sure you needed the rest." He stepped back, spread his hands awkwardly. "You hungry? I brought some food over."

"Maybe later." She dragged a hand down her face, blinking wearily. "Gasping for some tea, though – if, um, that's alright?"

"Come downstairs, I'll make you some."

She followed him downstairs, but left him a moment to peek into Sherlock's room. He went on and boiled the kettle, prepped two mugs – both a sickly shade of yellow – and then turned and leant against the kitchen counter. The light above him flickered once.

"He's sleeping," Molly told him as she shuffled in, sitting at the table. He nodded, opening the fridge.

"I hope you don't mind semi-skimmed," he said lightly. "Didn't think to call ahead and ask for a preference. Bought a green one out of habit – it's what the wife likes."

"Semi-skimmed is fine." She smiled softly. "Thank you, detective."

He wanted to say more. Learn more, about her, about who she was. Ask her how bad the last few weeks have been. Why she felt so obligated to stay, having only been in this part of London shy of six months, and having only known both him and Sherlock for less than that. But it felt futile. He worked amidst crime, had put away the most despicable of degenerates, tracked his boots through blood, watched his own colleagues crumble and corrupt. He was an expert on terror, a scholar when it came to malicious intent. He could hardly begin to comprehend the motives of someone so _kind_.

The kettle whistled. He made the tea.

"Ms. Hooper –"

"Molly," she interrupted, accepting the tea graciously and cradling it in both hands. "I-I know, we haven't spoken a lot, but we've worked together enough detective, and now this. You can call me Molly, if you want."

"Alright," he agreed, sitting across from her, "then you can call me Greg."

"Okay." She brought the tea to her lips and drank deeply. She closed her eyes, sank slowly into the wooden chair. Greg felt something stir a little in him.

"Molly," he began again, tapping a finger against the edge of his mug nervously, "I just wanted to uh, thank you. For being here. God knows no one expects it of you."

"It's my pleasure, really," she said, casting her eyes down to her lap. "I, um. I lost my dad to lung cancer, when I was young. I suppose, in a way, this helps me too. Allows me to do more than I could do back then."

"It must be difficult, seeing Sherlock like this. Going through it again."

"I'm not going through it again." Her voice suddenly took on a sharp edge. "I'm not. Because Sherlock isn't going to die."

"No," he agreed wistfully, "of course not."

Both jumped as there was a loud _smack _from across the flat. Sherlock had thrown his bedroom door into the wall, and was now stumbling unevenly down the hall. Molly stood, knocking over her tea, and stared at Greg for a moment. There was a microsecond of silence, everything suspended, and then suddenly a flurry of movement as the coroner collected herself and rushed from the kitchen.

"Get a glass of water," she threw over her shoulder, and then she was gone.

The detective released the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding and did as he was told. He had never been here during a crisis, only when Sherlock had either been sleeping or sitting quietly in the living room, and he struggled to control his trembling hands as he drew his friend a glass of water. For a minute he just stood, gasping a little, unable to turn around, until he heard Molly call him from the bathroom amidst some other, frightful noises.

"Pull yourself together man," he muttered to himself, walking stiffly through the flat, "what in the bloody hell are you so _afraid _of –"

"Oh Greg, thank you." Molly held a hand out expectantly for the water. The detective handed it over to her wordlessly, unable to pull his eyes away from the scene in front of him.

Sherlock was hardly able to hold himself upright. He was pale and withered, bracing himself on toilet seat as he leant down, panting harshly. He didn't seem to have noticed Greg, head so he low he was practically in the basin, and flinched once when Molly reached over and began rubbing circles on his back.

"I left you a bucket in your room for a reason," she scolded, frown marring her face. "You can't keep straining yourself like this."

"I'm not," Sherlock spat, voice hoarse and echoing inside the porcelain toilet, "vomiting into a fucking _bucket_."

Lestrade winced at the language. Sherlock had never been known to swear. But, as the younger man retched loudly again, whole body arching over as he struggled unsuccessfully to fetch up anything substantial, he supposed at this point Sherlock was allowed some liberties.

"Shh," Molly soothed as he burped again, this time spitting some bile into the bowl. He hung there for a while more, though it seemed to be over, saliva hanging from his mouth in a precarious string.

"Here." Lestrade offered up the glass of water as Sherlock reached over to flush the evidence away, and the younger man glanced at him gratefully, accepting it with both shaking hands. He sipped it slowly, ignoring the worried stares he was receiving from the other two people in the room.

"It's too small in here for three of us," he said eventually, setting the glass, half-empty, down on the white tile. "You two should leave – I'm going to shower."

"Sherlock –"

"_By myself_," he snapped, jaw set, and pale lips pressed into a line. "End of discussion."

Lestrade sighed, stepping back into the hall, Molly shuffling out after him. He sent Sherlock a desperate look. "If you need anything –"

"I won't." And the door slammed shut.

"It's okay," the coroner said, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "He should be fine. He looks bad at the moment because he's only just started his second cycle. But he's... capable. And he's not too accident-prone – yet."

"Yet?" The detective's voice hit a higher pitch. He cleared his throat. "It's going to get worse...?"

"Before it gets better," she finished for him, grimacing thinly. Lestrade tried not to think too hard about the word 'if'.

They heard the shower creak on, the steady stream of water creating an almost soothing undertone, and after listening for another uneventful thirty seconds, made their way back to the kitchen to clean up the tea they'd left all over the table and floor.

A real reification of the nightmare that was _now_.

*

It was small cell lung cancer – Sherlock honestly hadn't realised there were different types – and they weren't even sure if it had been solely the smoking that had caused it, or if the tobacco had simply ignited a predisposition. If he recalled, both of his grandparents on his father's side had passed after unfruitful battles with various cancers, though his father was yet to submit.

He supposed it might upset his dear old dad, if he ever were to find out, that Sherlock might also be taken by the same disease.

He'd caught it early, at least. He was only really on the cusp of extensive stage SCLC when he'd sought help – at his brother's request. Mycroft had even accompanied him when he was summoned to discuss the results of his CT scan. Had sat next to him whilst Dr. Wilson – an experienced, private oncologist his brother had found – explained that his nausea, unprecedented weight loss, and concentrated urine were not in fact, related to kidney malfunction at all, despite appearances. Instead, he was experiencing the syndrome of inappropriate antidiuretic hormone secretion, or SIADH – a direct result of the small, oat-like malignant cells clotting the spaces in his lungs.

It had all, horrifyingly, made sense. The cough that Sherlock had been struggling with for weeks suddenly didn't seem so much like a wintry cold anymore. The tightness in his chest that he'd assumed was a result of intense physical exertion became much darker, and more terrible. And the fatigue – the feverish, thick syrup that had been stuck between his eyes for over a month – no longer coincided so suitably with his frequent sleepless nights, or his busy, uninterrupted lifestyle. He had sought help for a supposed renal problem, and had received, instead, a pockmarked CT scan, six cycles of EP combo chemo, and a rather dismal prognosis.

He felt ignorant. And he _hated _feeling ignorant.

"It isn't all misery," Dr. Wilson had told him ridiculously, because to Sherlock, it certainly didn't sound like much else. "We've caught it, quite miraculously mind you, just before it could spread to your lymph nodes, trachea, and other organ systems. Over sixty percent of patients are in the extensive stage at initial diagnosis, due to the speed at which SCLC spreads. Your brother must be particularly observant to have caught it so quickly."

Sherlock snorted. _Observant_, when describing either brother, was a grave understatement.

"So, what are his chances?" Mycroft had asked, tone clipped – straight to the point, as per usual. "And how can we maximise them?"

"Right." Dr. Wilson fumbled with some papers, pulling them upright and stacking them neatly. "Small cell lung cancer at this limited stage is a little easier to treat. Mr. Holmes is not far off the extensive stage, however, so we must move quickly. I intend to proceed with EP, or PE treatment – that is, a combination of the chemotherapy drugs Paraplatin and etoposide – for six, three-week cycles. So that's a day of IV treatment, two days of oral therapy, and then an eighteen-day rest period, six times. On the fourth cycle, I want to include radiotherapy into his regimen. After the six cycles are complete, we will review the case, and move forward from there." He folded his hands smartly, leaning forward across his varnished oak desk to speak to Sherlock directly. His voice melted into something softer. "With this programme, I would estimate that you have a five-year survival rate of approximately thirty percent, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock swallowed thickly, fidgeting in his chair. His chances were less than a third. Less than a third that he might, if lucky, simply prolong his life; put death out of sight but not out of mind; die, regardless, but with a delay?

A five-year timestamp. He'd be twenty-seven. It evoked, distantly, the thought that he'd be joining a club – a morbidly famous club – but that he was unlikely to be remembered that way. Or remembered at all. What right did Sherlock Holmes, unknown to all but a select few at Scotland Yard, have to share a list with the likes of Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain, respected members of a cultural phenomenon?

He hadn't done what he wanted to do. Hadn't proved himself yet. Might not ever get the chance, now, to be a somebody.

"Mr. Holmes?" He looked up, matching Dr. Wilson's expectant gaze. He felt his brother place a hand lightly upon his forearm – a rare, but appreciated, show of affection.

"I –" his voice broke, the words stuck. He blinked, shook his head, and blinked again. "I'm fine," he croaked, though nobody had asked. "When do I start?"

"You should go home for now, let this all sink in." The doctor smiled gently, and it suited him well. "We'll start treatment on this ward at nine thirty tomorrow morning."

"Alright," he replied, and felt his body, detached, rise from the chair. He also heard himself say something resembling thanks, but he wasn't sure if he truly meant it. And as he stood, Mycroft's gentle hand at his elbow, he took in the office for the first time; the collection of smiling photos on the wall, the thank you notes pinned to a large corkboard, the awards trapped behind the glass of a small cabinet. And he thought, with every life saved, there had to be some lives lost. But they weren't here. They weren't immortalised on Dr. Wilson's wall. They were numbers, lost in spreadsheets, buried deep in medical records – and in sod.

*

Molly Hooper had only been in her own apartment for twenty-three hours before she was called by Mycroft Holmes.

He had offered to take over for her for a few days, so that she might sleep in her own bed, pack even more clothes, and spend time with her cat, Aragog, who she had not seen for nearly a month. In fact, the scrawny animal was perhaps more familiar with her neighbour than her, now. 

Said cat screeched unhappily as she nudged him from her lap and crawled over to the other end of the sofa to answer her phone. In all honestly, she had expected to be summoned back to Baker Street much sooner, and may have enjoyed the radio silence more than she liked to admit. She had been Sherlock's caretaker for three of his cycles now, and she was _tired_. Looking after cancer patients was itself an emotionally and physically draining business – looking after _Sherlock Holmes _gave the word 'difficult' an entirely new meaning.

But there was something about him that just screamed loneliness. Something in the pale regard of his eyes, subdued by a satin sadness when no one was looking. It reminded her of her dad, when he'd been dying of the same disease. And she'd be damned if she ever ignored such a desperate plea again.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Hooper." The elder Holmes' voice was uncharacteristically small, and she sat straighter on the couch. "I apologise for calling so late."

"It's nine," she said, glancing at the clock. "I don't usually sleep 'til – it doesn't matter, sorry. What's wrong?"

"It's – well, it shouldn't be an issue, really, but... you see –"

"It's okay Mr. Holmes." His anxiety was practically palpable through the phone. "What do you need?"

Mycroft took a long breath, the air rushing through as static. "He... he won't eat. He hasn't eaten all day. I've tried everything – but, as you know, he's rarely one for negotiation..." Another sigh. "It's just, he's starting his fourth cycle tomorrow. He needs his strength and... I don't know what do when he's like this. He's being difficult. Irrational."

"He's starting his radiotherapy this cycle." It was more a statement than a question. "He's scared, Mr. Holmes."

"Pardon me?"

"With all due respect," Molly said, feeling her hands begin to shake, "I've been present throughout the majority of his treatment. I've gone with him to his intravenous treatments, I've made sure he took his pills at the right time; and I've seen, first-hand, how much Sherlock has struggled. You haven't seen how difficult this has been for him – how awful chemotherapy truly is."

"Ms. Hooper –"

"Have you sat with him, even once?" Silence. "He's in pain, Mr. Holmes. And with chemoradiotherapy, it will only get worse for him. Of course, he's scared – and there's nothing irrational about it."

The man at the end of the phone seemed to ponder her words for a while. There was only the sound of her stuttered breathing, and Aragog's continuous purring. She prodded the cat with her foot, and received a coarse lick in return.

And then, finally: "I may have been mistaken," which Molly supposed was the best apology he could come up with. "I am also concerned, which could be why I came across so... crass."

Molly raised her eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Yes." He was waspish, again. "I presume, though, that you would know how to help."

She nodded, though he couldn't see her. "I'll be right over," she said, and then ended the call before he could respond.

She got up, and began collecting her things. Aragog eyed her warily from his spot beneath the coffee table. "I'm sorry," she whispered, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. "You're going to have to stay with Mr. Dipper again." He mewled despondently. "Oh, hush. I know you like him. He gives you fresh tuna out the can, even when I tell him not to."

She scooped him up, and brought him to her chest. His long black tail reared up to tickle at her chin, soothing her ragged nerves. "I'll bring you to meet him one day," she muttered, pressing a kiss to the top of Aragog's head. "I think he'd like you. But not today. I think, unfortunately, you'd do more harm than good."

She kissed him again, this time a goodbye. She couldn't be certain when she'd see him again.

*

The fifth cycle brought tortuous afflictions.

One cycle of chemoradiotherapy treatment had been enough to truly wear Sherlock down. A second round was clearly going to be too awful to stand. The first Friday of the cycle – his last day that week of radiotherapy, but his first day of oral EP chemo – saw the younger Holmes slumped in his armchair, orange pills glinting forgotten under the lamplight.

Molly took them up from the side table and knelt in front of him, a pristine glass of water in one of her gloved hands. "Sherlock," she said, voice muffled by the mask over her mouth, "I really need you to take these." The consulting detective shook his head and closed his eyes, chapped lips thinning out. Molly sighed, shifting her position so that her feet wouldn't lose feeling. "I know you don't want to. But I promise you, no matter how shit they make you feel now, you'll feel better in the long run."

Sherlock shook his head again, but this time it was more desperate. Molly set the water down on the rug just as he brought two shaking hands up to cover his face – and then, to her absolute horror, he began to cry.

"Oh, no, Sherlock –" she pushed herself up onto her knees, at a loss. The Holmes' brothers rarely ever showed emotion, although it wasn't hard to tell that Sherlock was the more passionate of the two. They were private, stoic people, and to cry so openly –

Well. It meant disaster.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her own voice thick with tears, and she brought herself further up to wrap her arms around him. To her surprise, he responded immediately; bringing his own thin arms round to rest lightly on her back, and tucking his face warmly into the crook of her neck. They sunk into each other, both clinging to any shred of comfort, Molly weeping silently whilst Sherlock wet her shirt with large, shuddering sobs. Mrs Hudson came and went, leaving a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table. They stayed like this for near an hour, long after their tears had been stoppered, and silence had fallen.

After all, there was little that could be said or done.

*

Sherlock spent his sixth cycle inpatient, with a common cold.

It had been a worst-case scenario, coming down one morning to find him twisted in the throes of a violent fever. He was too immunocompromised, and Baker Street, no matter how many times Molly scrubbed it clean, was no longer sufficient. She had immediately called an ambulance, and held his hand whilst they waited for its arrival.

Those sixteen minutes had been long and frantic. Molly had wrung the cloth despairingly each time, wiping the sweat from his brow and chest whilst her charge muttered insensibly. He was frightfully pale, emaciated – and for the first time, in all of Molly's stubborn optimism, she feared for his life.

The sound of the paramedics at the door appeared to kindle something in him. As Molly stood to answer them, he threw a hand out to grasp her arm, starkly lucid. "Please don't," he panted heavily, words hardly louder than the cool London air. She shook her head, face crumpling. He did not let her go.

"Molly," he breathed, and she stepped closer to hear him. "Please don't – don't do this."

"I have to," she told him, unable to keep the emotion from her words. "You know I have to."

"I don't want to –" he coughed deeply, the air rattling noisily in his lungs. She tried to pull away again, but he held firm. "Please," he said eventually, red-rimmed eyes wide and imploring. "I don't want to die in a hospital, Molly."

Minutes later, the paramedics had whisked him away. And Molly, catatonic from Sherlock's parting words, was picked up by Lestrade, who drove her home and stayed the night.

*

Sherlock completed his sixth and final cycle weeks behind schedule. His cold had grown into full-blown pneumonia, and for a while it was touch-and-go. Mycroft had flown his parents in from Scotland to say goodbye, only to be slapped forcefully by none other than Molly Hooper herself.

"How dare you worry your parents," she had said, furious. "He will be _fine_."

And she was right. A week later, he had made a full recovery, and after some bloodwork, was back on course to finish his treatment.

This time, when he was summoned to Dr. Wilson's office, he brought a certain coroner with him in lieu of a politician, because something about her nowadays never failed to calm him.

"Good news," the doctor began, and both Sherlock and Molly instantly relaxed. "As you know, the CT scan we took following your second cycle showed a positive response to the treatment, and it appears as though that was consistent. As of today, there are no visible signs of cancer on your imaging."

He drew out two large black films, and laid them out on the desk. Molly leaned over to inspect each of them, and then shot Sherlock a wide grin when both appeared in order.

"However," he continued, "I want you to remain vigilant. SCLC has always been difficult to detect, and so I'd like to perform one more course of radiation on your skull. This is both preventative and cautionary – I want to make sure the cancer cells have not, and will not, spread to your brain.

I'd also like you to practice high-levels of self-care. Eat regularly – you need to restore your weight. Drink plenty of fluids and replace electrolytes to help sustain your kidneys, which will be at risk of long-term effects following chemo. And..." He flicked through a file, contemplative. "You were a smoker, correct?" Sherlock nodded. "Right. Well, smoking already puts you at risk for stroke, heart disease, chronic bronchitis – you understand. Chemotherapy increases these risks. It is imperative you make healthy lifestyle choices from now on."

"He will." Both men turned to stare at Molly, who blushed colourfully. "I – I mean, I know he will. I'll –"

"She'll make sure I will," Sherlock finished for her, smiling tenderly. "Thank you, doctor."

"It's been my pleasure." Dr. Wilson stood and spread his arms. "I'll see you in a month, Mr. Holmes, and then every three months after that. Let's keep you cancer-free for as long as possible, shall we?"

The trip down to the hospital parking lot was quiet, tentative. Sherlock asked Molly if she'd perhaps like some coffee, and after a polite declination, fell silent. It wasn't until they stood outside of her old blue Toyota that the detective found the words to say.

"Thank you," he said seriously, meeting her gaze over the washed-out hood. "I – I really mean it, Molly. I know it must have been difficult, looking after me."

She stepped forward, placing an arm on the car as if to reach out to him from across it. "It was my pleasure Sherlock, honestly." Her eyes shone prettily with unshed tears, and the younger Holmes tore his gaze away.

"I don't like showing weakness," he muttered, playing with the collar of his shirt. "And I know, at times, my anger at the situation hurt you. And my callousness – it was all, uh, a defence. I just wanted you to know that not a second went by that I didn't – that I don't – appreciate you."

"I know," she said kindly. "I do. You think people can't see that you care, but they do. You care in your own way, Sherlock, and that's why you're never alone. You have Lestrade, Mrs Hudson – even my cat Aragog, who you must meet by the way." She laughed brightly, and he thought it might be the first time in a while he'd heard such a luminous sound. "We'll always be there. You'll always have friends in us."

He nodded gratefully, and after a few minutes of companionable silence, they clambered into her car. She turned the ignition, the radio burbling lowly, and swivelled to face him.

"So," she said, switching gear with a lurch, "back to Baker Street?"

"Back to Baker Street," he echoed.

She hit the gas, and they sped home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to touch on some subtler themes of cancer - the relationships, the emotions - rather than the disease itself, and I worked long and hard on this to make sure I wrote it properly. Apologies for any medical mistakes, I am not a doctor, but I did thoroughly research, so just let me know.


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